KinStrife
by Isabeau of Greenlea
Summary: A nineteenyearold Imrahil and his friend Andrahar spend a night at a brothel that threatens their relationship. Warning: Explicit slash in Chapter Five. UPDATED: Chapter Twelve is up.
1. Default Chapter

Lithe, 2974

Adrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, stood by the window of his office, looking out over a lovely view of his city falling away below him to the shore of the Sea and sighed. He had spent most of the afternoon with Ornendil, his Armsmaster, discussing the progress of the various esquires under Ornendil's care. Many of those esquires were scions of noble houses, submitting themselves to the will of the Lord of Belfalas to acquire what was widely regarded as the finest military education in Gondor. Others of them were soldiers who had served in humbler capacities in the army or navy of Dol Amroth, given this untoward opportunity to rise because of proven courage in battle. The current subject of conversation between the two men was neither.

"So….what of Andrahar? You have not spoken of him yet," the Prince asked quietly. "Is there some reason you have saved him for last?"

Ornendil got up from the desk where rested the records of his students' progress and stretched, then frowned at his lord.

"I told you from the start that I did not think the Swan Knights were the place for him, my lord prince, and you forced him upon me nonetheless. It little avails me to complain of him, for you will give me as short a shrift now as you did then."

Adrahil turned and gave the captain a severe look. "I will indeed, until you come up with a complaint that has basis in anything other than your prejudice about Andrahar's origins. Are his scholarly subjects in arrears?"

"Nay, my lord," the captain admitted reluctantly. "He does not care for bookish things, but he does apply himself, and he has maintained sufficient progress in those areas. The young Prince has somewhat to do with that, I think."

"It is good that Imrahil has troubled to help him. My son is uncommonly indolent in other matters bearing upon his responsibilities." The Lord of Dol Amroth strolled over to the desk and started leafing through the reports. "How are Andrahar's martial skills? Is he making sufficient progress there as well?"

"More than sufficient," Ornendil was forced to concede after a moment. "His mounted work is of a decent standard and is steadily improving, and as for his blade work on foot--he is that rarest of things, a true natural. I should not like to face him myself in a serious fight." Adrahil cocked an eyebrow at that.

"Then if his scholarly and martial studies are keeping pace with his classmates, what exactly are your objections?"

"My lord, I fear his influence upon the young Prince. They are together all the time, and Andrahar's life as a street-rat in Umbar gives him knowledge of ….vices and perversions that I do not think you wish the Prince to be experiencing." The Prince of Dol Amroth smiled, put the reports down, and moved to his other window, which overlooked the inner courtyard. Cheerful young voices floated up to the open casement. Midyear's Day was the day after tomorrow, and the esquires were enjoying the rare freedom of a holiday week. The sun was falling towards the horizon, and a cluster of esquires in festival finery were making their way towards the gate and out into the town for a night of revelry. Two in particular caught Adrahil's eye--his only son, debonair in wine-red brocade, his arms about the shoulders of two of his companions, head tipped back in laughter; and behind him, his faithful shadow, clad still in esquire's livery for he did not trouble himself to acquire festive clothing, blue-black hair gleaming in the sun. Sober and silent and watchful, his hands never far from the hilts of his blades. Andrahar of Umbar. Houseless bastard, and former thief and boy-whore.

"I think it is more likely that Imrahil would corrupt Andrahar than the other way around, Ornendil," the Prince replied mildly. "Andrahar owes my son a blood-debt, and his folk take that very seriously. He will do nothing to harm Imrahil. No, matters will stay as they are for the time being, and if Andrahar achieves the appropriate marks in all of his work, you will promote him with the others."

"As you wish, my lord prince," Ornendil said, his reluctance and unhappiness very apparent.

************

Imrahil's shadow, they called him. And sometimes, Imrahil's dog, though generally not to his face--to do so could prove dangerous. The other esquires among the Swan Knights did not understand that Andrahar's blood-oath to Imrahil required that he accompany him almost everywhere. They thought that he sought to curry favor by doing so, and since he cared less than nothing for what they thought, he did not trouble to defend himself. He kept his silence and his place, which meant that quite often he found himself following his lord to destinations and activities which he himself did not enjoy.

Like now.

Plays were of no particular interest to Andrahar. He could not understand his Prince's fascination with them, unless it was a love of the unattainable. There had been no players allowed in Dol Amroth for five years, since Imrahil had tried to run away from home with a troupe at the age of fourteen. So the Heir's enthusiasm knew no bounds when it was announced that his father had finally relaxed the restriction, and that there would be players in the city for the Midyear festivities.

He had immediately made plans for an evening with his friends that was to start with a theatrical performance and end with performances of a different sort at the Fairweather, his favorite brothel. Needless to say, Andrahar had been invited along. That did not please all of Imrahil's noble friends, but he would have insisted upon accompanying the Heir even had he not been invited. Imrahil on the prowl was prone to trouble of the most drastic sort and required a great deal of looking after.

The evening started innocuously enough. Several esquires had decided to accompany the Prince to the evening's entertainment, Imrahil's promise to share the bounty of the Fairweather being almost as strong an incentive as the prestige of being seen in his company. Valyon and Golasgil, who were heirs to their fathers' holdings in Belfalas and Anfalas had come, as well as Barador, Casveyllin, Elethil and Peloren, who were young men of good family, if not of as exalted birth as the first two. They all walked down into Gate Town, chatting and laughing, and found the players set up in the marketplace. Some rough bleachers were arranged in a semi-circle about the stage, and chairs had been set upon them. For the less well-off, there was standing room within the semi-circle.

Imrahil went to pay admittance for everyone, and suggested that they take the standing space rather than the seats.

"We will be all the closer, and see and hear better," he said coaxingly.

"I don't want to stand here all night, highness!" Golasgil complained. "How long is this play supposed to be?"

"I am not certain. Not more than a couple of hours, though," the Heir replied.

"My lord, you should take the seats," Andrahar said. "The standing space is not safe. T'would be too easy for someone to work close in the crowd and harm you."

"Can you not relax just this once, Andra?" Imrahil asked, grinning. "I invited you to come with us tonight as my friend, not my bodyguard."

"And it is not your place to dictate to the Prince what he may or may not do in any event!" snapped Valyon.

"I am not dictating, Valyon," Andrahar said quietly. "But the Prince is not a common person, and may not risk himself as such folk do."

"Besides, Valyon, why are you arguing? You do not want to stand any more than the rest of us do!" declared Golasgil.

"He gets ideas above his station, the Southron does!" growled Valyon. Then, turning to Andrahar, "And it is 'Lord Valyon' to you!"

"No, it is not," the young Haradrim replied calmly. "We are all of us esquires, and Prince Adrahil said that we were to treat each other as equals. So I need not call you or any other esquire 'lord', save for Imrahil."

"You're not really supposed to call me 'lord' either," Imrahil reminded him with a grin. Andrahar gave him a look of long-suffering patience that seemed to imply there would be no moving him upon this matter. The young Prince laughed.

"Very well then, I bow to the majority opinion. Seats it is." And he purchased their tickets, whereupon they all made their way up into the stands.

************

The play, which was entitled _Kin-strife,_ was quite enjoyable. Though obviously written to appeal to the masses, with all sorts of duels, romances, battles and death scenes, the poetry was actually passable. The rather gruesome death of Ornendil son of Eldacar, for whom the esquires' own Armsmaster was named, provided the fodder for many a snickered joke amongst the esquires, and even Andrahar unbent enough to make muttered comments about the believability of the swordplay--until the Heir elbowed him in the ribs.

Eldacar was played by an extremely handsome and graceful young man with golden hair, who quite captivated Imrahil.

"He is very good in the part, do you not think so, Andra?" he whispered.

"I fear that I am no judge of such things, my lord," came the disinterested reply. Imrahil cocked an eyebrow at him and chuckled.

"Well, I intend to have a word with him afterwards, and tell him how much I enjoyed the performance. Artists appreciate that sort of thing."

"It would be a princely thing to do, my lord," Andrahar agreed, all the while wondering if that was Imrahil's only intention. The Heir's fascination with acting and the theater had not lessened in the least during Prince Adrahil's ban on players. Andrahar suspected that Imrahil's real aim was to prolong his theatrical experience and to feel more of a participant, not to merely express royal approval. But so long as Andrahar was allowed to accompany him and guard his back, the esquire would not object.

Thus the party of fledgling Swan Knights eventually found themselves in the little backstage area behind the players' wagons, watching as the Heir talked meter and verse with the actors. The young lead's name was Falastir, and he and Imrahil hit it off immediately, both quoting poetry and plays at each other, said quotes being interspersed with much laughter. This went on for almost an hour before the other esquires grew restive and bored enough to dare the Heir's displeasure.

"Imrahil, the night is wearing on," Valyon reminded the Prince as testily as he dared, having been given the position of spokesman because of his rank. There were murmurs of agreement from his fellows. "The Fairweather awaits. Can you not come speak to them some more tomorrow?"

"Father and Mother made me promise to spend some time with them tomorrow. It was their condition for allowing me out tonight," the Heir replied, "and I very much doubt they will let me come to the play again. It took an awful lot to persuade Father to let me do it this once."

"Your father mislikes the theater?" Falastir inquired curiously. Imrahil shrugged.

"It is a long story." He looked thoughtful for a moment, then handed a small silver key inscribed with a sigil over to Valyon. The other esquires craned their necks to see it. Excited murmurs arose. There you are, Valyon," the young Prince said, "that's my Fairweather token. You are right--I've kept you all cooling your heels too long. Why don't the rest of you go on and get started? With my key, you can have whomever you like. I'll follow in a bit." Andrahar leaned against one of the brightly painted caravans, arms crossed, and gave the Heir a glare. Imrahil grinned. "I meant to say _we'll _follow in a bit."

"I think you should come with us," Valyon protested and for once, Andrahar found himself in agreement with the arrogant young sprig. Imrahil waved a hand airily.

"Oh, I shall be along soon enough. Tell Celebrindal to wait for me."

Valyon wrinkled his nose. "_Celebrindal_? What do you want with her? She's one of the oldest ones!" The young Prince smirked.

"Because she should rightly be called 'Silver-tongue' instead of 'Silver-foot'!" Falastir and a couple of the other actors whooped in appreciation, and Barador looked suddenly intrigued. Elethil just looked baffled--until Peloren whispered something in his ear, whereupon he blushed furiously. Slipping the key into his belt pouch, Valyon frowned, but nodded.

"Very well then, but do not tarry over long, please? Remember that we promised your father we would all stay together."

"Yes, I remember," Imrahil replied blithely. "I shan't be long, I promise. Now go on, and have a good time!"

The esquires departed with some backward looks--despite his kind demeanor, Prince Adrahil was not a man to cross. Imrahil took up his conversation with Falastir again the moment they had gone, and the two young men talked for about a quarter of an hour more before Falastir's fellow troupe members became impatient in their turn.

"We are going to have a bit of a celebration tonight," the player explained. "This is the first time we have ever put this play upon the boards, and it looks to be a success. So we rented a suite at a brothel in town and arranged for some feminine company. Nowhere near as nice as your Fairweather I'm sure, but we will have a good time." He gave the Prince a speculative look. "You would be welcome to join us, if your princely manners could stand it, or at the very least walk with me there that we might have more time to talk. Then you could rejoin your friends."

"I think I would like that," Imrahil said, even as Andrahar declared, "I do not think you should, my lord. We should join the others."

"Andra, stop fussing! We're just going to talk. Which brothel are you going to, Falastir?"

"The Sea Star," he answered, and the young Prince smiled. "See, Andra, there is no problem--our ways run together for a little while yet." Andrahar subsided, but his glower spoke volumes. The actor smiled at him, only to receive a glare in response.

"Is he your bodyguard?" Falastir asked the Heir.

"No, he's my friend. But he has appointed himself my keeper."

"And do you require a keeper, my lord prince?"

"Definitely!" Andrahar snapped before Imrahil could answer. The Prince and the player both laughed.

"Well, Prince Imrahil and keeper of the Prince, let us be off!" Falastir declaimed cheerfully with an appropriately theatrical flourish and bow. "The wine and women await!" 

***********

Falastir and Imrahil continued their conversation as the actors processed through the streets of Dol Amroth, singing and reciting the best parts of their new play as they went, and encouraging passers-by to attend the next night's performance. Andrahar tried to get Imrahil to turn off at the street which should have marked the parting of their ways, only to be told that the Prince wanted to see Falastir all the way to his night's lodging. When the young esquire pressed the issue, Imrahil became sulky and snappish. Knowing that further efforts to persuade would only cause the contrary Heir to resist that much more, Andrahar subsided for a time to await the proper moment to resume his pleas. 

The Sea Star turned out to be a nice enough place, a modest, middle-class establishment, reasonably clean and reputable, though the girls that had been hired for the evening ran the gamut from one very young and pretty one to an older woman obviously not far from forced retirement, and everything in between. Imrahil, ever generous, immediately bought a keg of ale for the actors, and was toasted with it by them. He settled himself upon one of the couches in the sitting room of the suite they had rented, whereupon Falastir brought out the script for _Kin-strife_, and asked that he read some of the passages he had liked the best. He did so gleefully, and the pastime obviously delighted him, particularly when the actors praised his delivery.

Andrahar, who was not a fool, realized that the actors were hoping to acquire Imrahil's patronage. While, realist that he was, he had no particular problem with that, it seemed all hope of getting the Prince back to where he belonged was rapidly melting away. Trying once more to convince him to leave and rejoin his friends at the Fairweather, he found Imrahil to be decidedly uncooperative.

"Andra," the Heir hissed in the esquire's ear, "we are on _holiday_! And you are supposed to have _fun_ on holiday! And I _am_ having fun--or I _would _be if you would stop this endless nagging!"

"You promised your father that you would all stay together, my lord!"

"That was so we'd all be safe. There are enough of them together that they will be safe, and so long as you are with me, I am in no danger! Now relax! I am not leaving until I am ready to, so you may as well."

With an annoyed sigh, Andrahar found himself a wooden chair over by the wall and sat down. Knowing that there would be no way of budging his lord now, he watched as the actors drank and partook of a light supper. Falastir offered him food as well, but he declined with chilly politeness. Imrahil took a plate and ate a bit, but drank rather more, with the practiced pace of a young man who did this sort of thing often. He became more expansive and animated as the ale began to work on him, quite the life of the party, and the actors seemed to greatly enjoy his company.

"Do you truly have to leave, my lord prince?" Falastir inquired after a time. Imrahil shook his head.

"A brothel is a brothel. The others will hardly miss me by now." He chuckled. "Besides, I'm not sure I could find my way!"

"I can, my lord," Andrahar offered from his seat.

"Enough, Andra! Get something to drink, for Valar's sake!"

Andrahar did not comply with the Prince's wish, not that Imrahil seemed overmuch concerned about what he was doing or not doing. The revelry became wilder. More wine was called for, and much poetry declaimed. Falastir, his head close to Imrahil's, draped a more than companionable arm about the Heir's shoulders, and Imrahil, his eyes feverishly bright, did not object. Andrahar, looking at the player's graceful form, gilded hair and slender, expressive hands, both envied and hated him. _'Tis Gildor Inglorion all over again,_ he thought bitterly, wishing that he were the one who sat next to Imrahil, that it was he into whose ear Imrahil was murmuring lines from the play.

Noticing his grim countenance, one of the whores came over to Andrahar and leaned over, flashing a cleavage that was past its prime in a spectacularly unsubtle manner.

"Come, my fine lad, at least try to enjoy yourself! Such a sour face has no place here!"

Disgusted, the esquire took her by the shoulder and shoved her gently away, then crossed his arms.

"No thank you, mistress. I am not interested." 

Pouting, she stalked back towards the actors. "Not interested, or not able?" 

Imrahil, hearing her complaint, looked up and laughed a bit wildly. "Come now, Andra," he protested, "how do you know you don't like it if you won't try it? At least, that's what Father always said about me eating my vegetables, and it would seem to apply here as well." Falastir looked up, intrigued.

"A virgin, is he?"

Andrahar leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs at the ankle and surveyed them both with disdain. "Hardly," he said in the driest of tones. Imrahil hiccupped.

"He's a lover of men, Falastir. No use for the ladies at all." Andrahar's cheeks reddened in angry embarrassment at his lord's thoughtless revelation and comprehension dawned upon the actor's flushed face.

"Oh! Well then, that's no problem! Berony, over here! Here's one for you!" The older, saturnine dark actor who had played Castamir looked up from the couch, where he had a hand thrust down the bodice of one of the other wenches. Berony was apparently flexible in his desires. He looked Andrahar up and down in appraisal.

"Really?" 

For one brief moment, the esquire was tempted. Berony was not an unattractive man, and the opportunities for that sort of release were few and far between in his life. Then he looked back over at his lord. The prettiest whore, Meriwyn, had flopped down between Falastir and Imrahil on their couch, and both men were petting on her, though Falastir's hands strayed from time to time to Imrahil's body as well. The Heir seemed not to notice or did not care, intent upon kissing the girl as deeply as he could. Things looked to be working towards a full-blown orgy, and Andrahar had no intention of either watching or participating. He got to his feet and picked up his chair.

"I will be outside, Imrahil." 

The Prince detached himself from Meriwyn's mouth long enough to complain, "You never want to have any fun, Andra."

"I am sure that you will have enough for both of us, my lord," came the caustic rejoinder, as Andrahar carried his chair out the door and closed it behind him.

************

He settled himself in the hall, placing the chair against the wall and leaning his head back against it as well. It would have been nice to try to shut out the sounds of what was going on within, but that would have been unwise. He needed to be aware if some sort of scuffle broke out and his lord was in peril. There were certainly scuffling noises from within the room, but none of a contentious variety. Furniture scraped as it was bumped into or pushed about, and laughter either muffled or too loud issued forth. Every so often a voice would be raised in uneven song or recitation. Eventually, other noises indicated that intimate congress was going on. This went on for a while, and then the room grew quiet. Despite himself, he was drifting off to sleep when the door opened.

Meriwyn peeked out. She had replaced her clothing, but Andrahar's nose left him in no doubt as to what she had been doing. His blood chilled at the frightened look she gave him, and he was on his feet in an instant.

"My lord, you need to come in here." Shoving past her, he stepped into the room and froze.

Actors and whores sprawled over the furniture and floor in varying degrees of undress, snoring in drunken abandon. But what caught his eye and caused a thrill of terror to run through him was the tableau near the fireplace. A hearthrug was there, and it was apparently there that Imrahil, Falastir and Meriwyn had gone to play. The actor was naked, suspiciously still, and when Andrahar approached more closely, he found the man dead upon his back, his eyes open and staring, the warmth just leaving his body.

Imrahil lay upon his back as well, clad only in his breeches. His eyes were staring upwards too, but he was still alive, and they were locked upon something unseen. He was shuddering and twitching, and indistinguishable murmurs tumbled brokenly from his lips. Andrahar laid a hand upon his chest and found the Prince's heartbeat to be slow and irregular. Gently peeling back an eyelid revealed pupils that were mere pinpricks.

"What did they take?" he asked the girl harshly, "and how long ago was it?"

"It was _hekadi_, in the wine," she stammered. "Master Falastir offered some to the lord after we were… finished. He said it would help with the lord's poetry, that he would see things."

"And it did not occur to you to try to stop him?" The young prostitute gave him a wide-eyed look.

"_Me_ sir? Stop _him_, a great lord? How was I to do that?" Andrahar did not trouble to answer, but began slapping Imrahil's face gently, trying to rouse him.

"Imri? Imri, wake up!" The Heir groaned, and rolled his head to the side, but did not acknowledge Andrahar. "_How long ago?"_ he snarled once more at the girl, who started.

"A little while ago…not that long, I think. Is Master Falastir dead?"

"Yes. How much did the Prince take?" Meriwyn looked down at Imrahil, worried and fearful.

"Not so much as Master Falastir. Not very much at all really--he started feeling odd almost at once." Her brow furrowed. "I do not understand--_hekadi_ does not usually kill."

"It must have been corrupted in some manner," Andrahar muttered, turning his lord over onto his stomach. Imrahil was not particularly cooperative, thrashing and moaning. He was even less co-operative when Andrahar lifted him with an arm about his chest and thrust a finger down his throat with total disregard for the hearth rug, which was soon covered with the remains of what the Prince had eaten and drunk earlier. _Too late for that to be much use_ _in all likelihood,_ Andrahar thought to himself, _but it cannot hurt_. Wiping his hand upon his breeches, he hauled the Heir to Dol Amroth to his feet, and pulled Imrahil's arm across his shoulders_._

"Have you any bean tea here?" he asked Meriwyn, and the girl nodded.

"Aye, the mistress likes it."

"Then go brew some, strong as you can, and send for your mistress. I must speak to her." The whore scampered off, and Andrahar began trying to walk Imrahil about the room. The Prince's knees were rubbery, he had no coordination and hung heavily upon his shorter friend. Negotiating around all the sleeping bodies was difficult, so after one circuit of the room, Andrahar took him out into the hall, and was hauling him up and down it by main force when the mistress of the house arrived, flanked by a couple of large, bulky men who probably served as bouncers for the house .

"I am Serel, mistress of this house," she announced. A woman of late middle age, her once-attractive face was lined with age and frowning in disapproval. "I want no trouble here."

Andrahar gave her a flat look as he continued to drag Imrahil. "Well, you have it in any event, mistress," he grunted. "There is a dead man in that room, slain by an overdose of what was supposedly _hekadi_. And this man, poisoned by the same drug, is the Heir to Dol Amroth. If you wish to come out of this affair with your business intact, and possibly a little profit besides, you will do exactly as I say, and co-operate in every way, or Prince Adrahil may have cause to wonder about your involvement in the matter."

"I deal only in women and wine!" Serel protested, her face paling. "Never have I dealt in _hekadi_ or any other drug!"

"That will need to be proven. No matter what you claim, the young Prince received the drug under your roof."

One of the bouncers peered more closely at Imrahil. "He looks as if he's dying, mistress, and that's a fact. If he is indeed the Prince, we cannot have him perishing here. T'would be best to kill this one, and put them both out in the street some way away. Make it look like a robbery." The other bouncer nodded.

"'Tis true, mistress. Let us take care of this."

"Such talk is treason," Andrahar declared with what he hoped was a calm and deadly demeanor, "and if you so much as take one step towards us, I will kill the both of you." The two very large men looked at each other and grinned.

"Oh you will, will you, lad? We don't think so!" one of them said, and they started forward.

__

I cannot allow them to lay hands upon me, I am his only defender! And if he is left in an alley unattended, he will die! Andrahar thought. With no time to spare, he was forced to release the Prince and let him fall, hoping that Imrahil was limp enough that he would come to no further harm. He flexed his wrists and the spring-loaded wrist sheaths that Imrahil had gifted him the previous Yule did their work, filling both his hands with blades. They were balanced more for hand-fighting than throwing, but he had spent much of his scant spare time practicing with them to overcome that very problem, and the distance was too short to miss in any event.

Andrahar flipped the knives in his hands, and threw. The two bouncers slumped to the floor, each of them sporting a dagger sunk to the hilt in an eye socket. Serel gasped, and stepped back, but the esquire was upon her in a flash, slamming her up against the wall with a hand upon her throat. The other hand seized the wrist that was groping in the folds of her skirt for the knife she kept hidden there, and bashed it against the wall as well. The brothel mistress whimpered, her eyes wide.

"Please do _not _make the mistake of thinking that I will not kill you because you are a woman," Andrahar said with dreadful courtesy. "I require someone to take a message up to the castle. Have you any soldiers here this evening?"

"There were a couple here earlier!" Serel gasped out. "But I do not know if they intended to stay the whole night."

"Find out," the esquire commanded. "And bring them to me when you find them. And know this, lady," he added as he released her, "If you flee rather than doing as I have instructed, I will inform the Prince that you _were _responsible for my lord's plight, and I will hunt you down myself. And I am a _very _good hunter." He was endeavoring to make his expression as chill and menacing as possible, and the brothel mistress certainly seemed to find him frightening. She nodded, and even dropped a shaky curtsy before she fled down the hall.

When she had gone, he retrieved his blades, cleaned them upon his enemies' clothing, sheathed them, then knelt to examine Imrahil, who looked no worse off than he had been before his fall. The Prince cried out softly, but it seemed to be because of whatever visions he was experiencing rather than because he was harmed in any way. He was starting to shiver though, and not wanting to leave him alone in this place for a moment, Andrahar was forced to haul him to his feet again and walk him back into the parlor, where he propped his friend upon one of the couches and put his clothes and boots back on him. That helped with the shivering somewhat, though Imrahil's skin was still far too clammy and pale for Andrahar's liking.

During his own brief experiences in a brothel, Andrahar had seen a boy overdose upon _hekadi_, and as the boy had been a very attractive and valuable slave, Andrahar's master had actually troubled himself to send for an accomplished healer, who had told them that he could do nothing himself, but that they needed to make the boy walk to help work the poison out and give him lots of strong, stimulating drink. So the other whores who were not working had taken turns walking him about, and giving him bean tea. And the boy had lived, though he had been ill for some time afterward. Andrahar was hoping that the same would hold true for Imrahil. Or that Master Kendrion, the Prince's healer, would have some Gondorrim medical knowledge about dealing with the situation that his own people did not possess. Though he deemed that unlikely, as the vice was peculiar to Harad and the more southerly nations.

__

Such gifts and graces, and he does this to himself, he thought in disgust as he maneuvered his Prince back into the hall once more. _What is it that is lacking in his life, to make him behave so? _Whatever the problem was, after three years of trailing the Prince through his misadventures, Andrahar had run out of patience with his liege. The drinking and whoring he could understand, and even excuse as the expected wildness of a young, virile and rather spoiled nobleman. But the choice to take the drug….it was, he feared, the sign of worse things to come, that Imrahil's current indulgences no longer sated whatever demon drove him.

Andrahar could have defended the Prince against any enemies that sought to do him physical harm. But he knew himself ill-prepared to protect Imrahil against self-inflicted violence. Only the Prince himself could stop himself, and in order for him to do so, Andrahar would have to see that he lived through the night. So he set himself to accomplishing that task, putting aside any reflections upon the underlying problem until later. _For if he dies, _Andrahar thought, as he pulled Imrahil up the hall once more, murmuring coaxingly into his ear, _then honor demands that I follow him into death, and there will **be** no problem to ponder…_

************

Rather to his surprise, the brothel mistress did in fact return with a soldier. He seemed a stout, upstanding fellow, and was not very drunk at all. Bowing when he saw Andrahar's Swan Knight tunic, he looked at Imrahil, recognized him and straightened swiftly. 

"Hasgil is my name, my lord, of Herethel's company. How may I serve you?"

"Can you ride?" Andrahar asked him. The man shook his head regretfully.

"I am a footman, lord."

"Then make those feet of yours fly back up to the castle! Tell them that the young prince was slipped some _hekadi_ and is deathly ill. Have them send Master Kendrion, and a carriage and guard. My name is Andrahar--tell them I sent you. And make haste!" Hasgil nodded, and departed immediately at the trot, throwing a concerned look over his shoulder at the Prince as he left. 

"What else may I do for you, my lord?" Serel asked warily after he had gone.

"I sent Meriwyn to make some bean tea a while ago. Please see if it is done, and bring it hither." The brothel mistress nodded and departed as well, leaving Andrahar alone once more with his liege. Unable to discern much improvement, the esquire gritted his teeth, and pressed on, walking and talking softly to Imrahil, trying to engage his attention but to no avail. The Prince was muttering, but it had no connection to what Andrahar was saying to him. He seemed lost in the visions caused by the drug.

__

And if **hekadi **gives the ungifted visions, then what does it do to a dreamer like the Prince? Andrahar wondered. _Is there no difference in effect at all, or does it strengthen his dreams beyond what is bearable? Will his mind be damaged? There will be no way of knowing that until his awakening._

These depressing thoughts were interrupted by Meriwyn, who finally returned with a steaming mug wrapped in a towel held carefully in her hands, and a spoon. She gave a wide-eyed look to the two dead men in the hall, and crept carefully around them.

"Here, my lord," she said earnestly. "'Tis as strong as I could make it, but it is still very hot. I thought that we might sit him down upon one of the couches and feed him with the spoon. That way he won't be burned."

"A very good idea," Andrahar said approvingly. "Let us do that." Of course that meant returning to the parlor in which the actors had had their celebration. There, things were much as the esquire had left them before; the actors still slumbered drunkenly on, while Falastir slept in a more final fashion.

Meriwyn, whose had apparently gotten over her earlier fearfulness, set the bean tea upon a table beside a vacant couch, and moved to her former customer. Taking up his cloak from the pile of discarded clothes upon the rug, she knelt beside him, and passed her hand over his eyes, closing them. Then she covered the body with the cloak.

"You should see about having someone remove the bodies," Andrahar suggested, sitting down on the couch, and settling Imrahil onto his shoulder. The girl gave him a dry look.

"You _killed_ the men who usually deal with the bodies."

"Oh." There was not much he could say in answer to that. Taking up the spoon, he dipped it into the tea, blew on it and endeavored to get it into the Prince's mouth. A few drops found their way in, but most of it spilled down the front of Imrahil's tunic. 

Meriwyn, finishing with Falastir, rose and came over to him frowning. "Let me do that." With Andrahar to hold the Prince's head steady while she spooned the bean tea into him, things went much more quickly and neatly. Imrahil groaned in protest while they were finishing, and Andrahar was hopeful for a moment that he might be coming around, but he soon subsided into meaningless murmuring again. With a sigh, the esquire pulled his liege lord to his feet once more, and started to go out into the hall. Meriwyn halted him with a hand upon his arm.

"Listen," she said. "The customers are starting to leave--it's very late. Or very early, depending on how you look at things. You may want to stay in here for a bit, until things settle. You don't want people knowing that he's here in and so weak." Andrahar nodded.

"Very well, mistress. 'Tis a wise precaution. I thank you for your help."

Meriwyn looked at Imrahil, and smiled almost shyly. "He was kind to me tonight. I never dreamed I would have _him _for a customer! And I have seen him riding through the Old Town, now and again. He always seemed so bold and merry--I should not like to see him perish." She gave Andrahar a sidelong look. "Now that I think about it, you were always with him."

"Yes, I have been with him for three years now. A sweet lord withal."

"I hope that you will be with him for many years yet." She looked about her and sighed. "I should see about having some of this cleaned up." The room was definitely beginning to reek.

"Only if you do it," Andrahar said. "As you said earlier, it will not do to have others knowing the Prince is here and helpless." She nodded, and left, presumably in search of water and soap, while he started the tricky business of navigating about the room once more.

Time passed. Andrahar yawned as he plodded and pleaded, weariness beginning to catch up with him. Was the Prince actually starting to support himself a bit? He thought that perhaps he might be. Meriwyn returned with rags and a bowl of soapy water, and cleaned up the mess Imrahil had left on the hearth rug earlier. As she finished the task, there was a sound of many clattering hooves without, followed by voices raised in demanding inquiry down the hall. Andrahar's aching shoulders sagged in relief. Help had arrived.

************ 

Two Swan Knights swept into the room, swords drawn and noses wrinkling as they took in the tableau before them. They were followed by Master Kendrion, silver-haired and stately in his robes, carrying the case that contained his medicines. Two more Knights took up station outside, and Andrahar could hear them exclaiming over the bodies.

The healer smiled reassuringly at Andrahar, his eyes compassionate. "Sit him down over here, lad, and let me have a look at him," he said, indicating the same couch that the esquire had but recently vacated. Andrahar complied, and Kendrion peeled up the Prince's eyelid to examine his eyes, while his fingers rested gently upon Imrahil's neck, seeking the pulse.

"Do you know how much got into him?" he inquired.

"No, my lord. I was not in the room with him when he drank it. But this lady was," Andrahar replied, indicating Meriwyn. 

Some concise questions from the healer drew forth what little information the young prostitute had, whereupon he dismissed her kindly but firmly. He then questioned Andrahar upon the care he had given Imrahil, and nodded approvingly when he heard of the retching and the walking and the bean tea. "You have done a good job here, esquire, but we need to get the young Prince safely home," the healer declared. "We can walk him some more once we get him there."

"Will he be well then?" Andrahar asked. Master Kendrion shrugged.

"It is a too early to tell for certain, though I think he may be getting over the worst of it. The next hour or two should decide things. I am hopeful, however--the Prince has a strong constitution. Let us leave this place." With Swan Knights before and behind, they swept out of the brothel in fine style, past the corpses and the curious stares of both customers and whores. The carriage was waiting outside, with an escort of more Swan Knights. Andrahar got in first and pulled his liege lord inside with the help of the escorting Knights. The healer took the opposite seat once Andrahar had settled the Prince onto his shoulder. The coach started moving.

Stroking Imrahil's hair gently, Andrahar continued to talk to him. Kendrion looked on in approval.

"That is good--try to get him to come back to us. You have seen this before?"

The esquire nodded. "Once, long ago. In Harad."

"Then it is just as well that you were with him."

"I was not with him. I should have stayed with him in the room. I could have stopped from him taking it." The healer's grey eyebrow lifted.

"I do not believe that you are expected to stand over the Heir when he is….involved with his ladies, young Andrahar. There are times when the need for security must give way to privacy. Though I wish you could have stopped him from going with the players in the first place."

"That I did try to do. And failed," Andrahar admitted miserably. Kendrion tssked.

"Ah well, he's a strong-willed one, and no mistake. Much like his mother in that respect. There is no turning Olwen from a course once she has set her mind upon it either." That surprised Andrahar, for he had always found the Princess to be mild-mannered and even-tempered.

"The Prince and Princess are going to be angry with me about this," he predicted glumly. 

The healer smiled encouragingly. "It may not be as bad as all that."

Andrahar, still stroking Imrahil's hair, did not reply. Then his hand brushed the Prince's cheek, and he stopped in surprise. "He is not so cold anymore." Kendrion reached across the space between them to confirm this.

"Indeed. He may be starting to come out of it. Do not be alarmed if he should start to run a fever--it is common with such things."

"The boy in Harad did so, now that I think of it."

"Did he live?" the healer asked gently.

"Yes, he did, though he was sick for some time afterwards. And he was trying to die, I think. The Prince…I suspect the Prince was just looking for excitement. And he wanted to please his new friend." There was no use trying to hide the fact that Imrahil had taken the _hekadi_ voluntarily--Meriwyn had already told Kendrion as much.

"His new friend? The player?"

"Yes."

"He would have done better to pay heed to his old friend." Andrahar did not respond to that, but merely bowed his head, and drew Imrahil a bit closer.

They were just pulling through the gates of the castle, when the Prince stirred uneasily within his grasp.

"Andra?" came the pained murmur.

"Yes, my lord prince." Andrahar's heart leapt hopefully.

"Seein' things," Imrahil slurred. "Goin' be sick."

"Try to hold on a bit longer, my lord, if you can. We're near--" That the Prince was unable to do so became apparent the next moment, when Andrahar found himself drenched in once-drunk bean tea. Imrahil sagged against his shoulder in relief, then frowned dazedly.

"Sorry, Andra."

"It does not matter, my lord." And indeed it did not, since Imrahil was making sense of a sort at last. Kendrion gave Andrahar a sympathetic look, and as the carriage pulled to a halt before the castle doors, he got out first. A couple of Swan Knights moved into position to aid Andrahar in extricating the Heir from the coach, and he was able to hand the Prince down to them without incident. Each of them laid a royal arm over their shoulders and began walking him towards the castle doors, which stood open with light streaming from within. Two figures stood illumined in that doorway and Andrahar's heart sank. Adrahil and Olwen had come to await their son's homecoming.

He fell in behind Master Kendrion and the knights bearing Imrahil, well aware that he could hardly make a worse impression. Having set forth at the beginning of the evening with the jewel of their house, now, as dawn approached, he returned with said jewel nearly drugged to death, and himself in a state that was certainly less than pristine.

"Kendrion? Is he well?" Adrahil asked, as he and his wife came out to greet them.

"I would not say that he is well, but he spoke to us just now, so I will say that I think he will survive," the healer replied. "It may be a few days before he feels truly himself again." The Prince nodded, and his gaze fell upon Andrahar. His expression was unreadable.

"Andrahar. Get yourself cleaned up, and get some sleep--you look exhausted. We will speak later in the day." The esquire nodded, looking towards Imrahil yearningly. Having brought the Heir so far, he wished to stay with him until he was certain of his recovery. But Adrahil, interpreting his glance, shook his head.

"We will look after him now. Get some rest." The Princess, her face troubled, laid a hand along her son's cheek and spoke to him softly, and Imrahil murmured something back to her that Andrahar could not hear. Then the royal family processed back into the house, bearing Imrahil towards his rooms at last.

As he had been ordered, Andrahar sought out the great tiled room with the bath tubs wherein the esquires and soldiers who lived in the castle bathed. There, he found servants already heating water for those who wished to bathe early in the morning, who filled a tub for him without complaint. He scrubbed himself thoroughly, and washed his hair, grateful to be rid of the miasma of smells he had acquired in the brothel. Dressing in the clean uniform that waited in his cubbyhole, he then went directly to his room, where he took it off again immediately, folding it neatly against needing it later in the day. His stomach was somehow managing to growl with hunger around the leaden lump of worry within it, but he ignored the growling and crawled into bed. The sun was just coming up as he sank into slumber.

************


	2. Chapter Two

Even exhausted as he was, Andrahar was not a heavy sleeper. Time spent in the alleys of Umbar had taught him to always be aware on some level, lest someone creep up to rob or slay. So the moment before the hand clapped over his mouth, he seized the wrist and sank his teeth into it instead. Someone cried out, the hand was jerked away and there was an immediate hubbub of low, urgent voices.

"He _bit_ me!" "Close the door!" "_SIT ON HIM!" _ He opened his eyes, found his room awash in late morning light and full of off-duty esquires, and tried to roll off the bed, to free himself from the encumbering covers. But a couple of young men hurled themselves onto him, one lying crosswise over his legs, pinning them, the other trying frantically to seize his arms. The arm-grabber was Peloren, and he actually managed to grasp one limb before Andrahar slammed his still-free fist into the side of his head, and he fell back off of the bed. But two others moved instantly to replace him, and Andrahar, hampered by the esquire across his legs, who turned out to be Barador, did not have sufficient freedom of movement to fight as well as he could. Still, noses were being bloodied and eyes blackened--until an esquire's belt slipped over his head from behind and snaked tight about his neck. He made an instinctive grab for it, and two of his classmates took that opportunity to grasp his arms.

Valyon's voice sounded hatefully in his ear as he squirmed and bucked and tried to throw off his assailants. "You dirty Southron! We heard what happened--did you think we would not? You used those actors to lure Imrahil to that whorehouse, and there you gave him your filthy Southron drugs and nearly killed him! You are naught but a street-rat and a pervert, and it is time that you were taught your place, which is certainly not in the Swan Knights! Elethil, take your belt and lash his ankles together! Peloren, take you yours and lash his arms behind his back--Casveyllin, Golasgil, turn him about and put his wrists together." 

Andrahar's struggles became even more frantic at that point, but to no avail. Elethil flipped up the coverlet upon the foot of his bed and strapped his ankles together, and once that was done, Barador was free to join the others in pinioning his arms. Once they were secured, Valyon directed his accomplices to haul Andrahar upright, and the moment they had done so, he slammed his fists into the bound esquire's gut in a swift one-two motion, and when Andrahar tried to curl up and protect his more vulnerable regions, Barador hauled his head up and cracked him across the face.

The fists of the two esquires then pummeled him mercilessly, and for a time he tried to resist, to pull his legs up and kick or head-butt his assailants. But he was finally overcome by the repeated blows, the fight went out of him and he hung limp and unresponsive in the arms of Casveyllin and Golasgil. Valyon told them to drop him on the floor, and when they had done so, immediately kicked him in the back .

Through a pain-filled haze, Andrahar heard Peloren's voice raised in protest. "That's _enough, _Valyon! You said you wanted to give him a lesson, not kill him!"

"Ah, but he's a tough one! It has to be a very _strong_ lesson to make the right impression," came Valyon's answer, a pleased tone to his voice. His foot, shod in the hard leather of a riding boot, stomped down this time, impacting his victim's side. Andrahar felt a rib crack, and cried out despite himself.

"No more, Valyon!" Elethil exclaimed. "I won't be party to anything else!"

"Nor I!" Peloren chimed in. The senior esquire sighed. "Very well then. Get your belts, and let's be off." Elethil and Peloren reclaimed their belts with peculiar gentleness, carefully rolling Andrahar onto his stomach and jumping up swiftly once he was loose. But he made no attempt to attack them, merely rolling onto his good side with a groan.

"Remember, Southron--you are _not_ welcome here!" Valyon hissed, before he and the others filed outside, closing the door behind them.

Andrahar lay upon the floor for a long time after they had gone. He was clad in nothing but his underdrawers, and the cool stone flagging felt good against his abused flesh. By some happy chance, his nose was not broken nor had he lost any teeth, though a couple did feel loose. But his lip was split, both of his eyes were swelling shut, and he could not move without nausea overwhelming him.

After a time, he thought to try to rise and reach his bed, for though the esquires' mattresses were hardly luxurious, they were softer than the floor. It took a while, and the damaged rib caused some strained and breathless cursing on his part, but he eventually managed to crawl back up onto his bed inch by pained inch and pull the coverlet back over himself. He remembered, as he was sinking into unconsciousness, that he had heard somewhere it was not good to go right to sleep when one had a head injury, but he did not think his skull was cracked, and with Imrahil disabled, there was no one he would have wanted to help him stay awake anyway.

He sleep was deep and dreamless, and had anyone wished to do him harm again, they would have found him an easy mark.

************

Someone was touching Andrahar's shoulder, and when he belatedly realized it, his hand slipped under the pillow for the dagger he habitually kept there. But it was gone, probably spilled to the floor in the earlier scuffle. He tried to move, to throw himself free of the bed even as his eyes snapped open, but the cracked rib and his back flared white-hot pain and he could not.

__

"Do not touch me!" he snarled in his birth tongue, his lips puffy and jaw sore.

Armsmaster Ornendil, whose hand it was, took a cautious step back.

"Easy, lad! 'Tis only me. Valar, what happened to you?" he added as he got a better look at the esquire. The single window showed the golden glow of sunset.

As he was neither a complainer nor an informer by nature, Andrahar said nothing. Ornendil's eyes narrowed.

"The Prince wished to speak with you and sent a page, but the boy could get no answer when he knocked at the door, and when he peeked in he feared you'd done yourself a mischief, so he came to me." The Armsmaster was clad in his dress livery; obviously, he had been on his way to dinner. There was a stirring near the door, and Andrahar saw a young boy peer in.

"Ah, there you are lad," Ornendil said heartily. "Make haste, and find Master Kendrion. Bring him back with you." The boy bobbed his head and scampered off-Andrahar could hear the soles of his slightly overlarge shoes slapping on the flags in great haste. The Armsmaster then turned his attention back to the esquire.

"Esquire, who did this to you?" Andrahar gave him a stony glower.

"That was not a request, that was an order."

"I may not say," came the slow reply, this time in Westron.

"Why not?"

"'From this day forth, no matter your birth, you are brothers. Brothers-in-arms. You will do no harm to your brothers.'" It was, haltingly delivered, a verbatim quote from Ornendil's address to new esquires, and the Armsmaster flinched when he heard it.

"Oh, lad. The other esquires did this to you?" Andrahar did not reply, but settled himself back upon his pillow and deliberately turned his head away. Ornendil sighed.

"Andrahar, this is a very grave matter. If any of your brother esquires did this to you, we need to know. It is a violation of our code, and we do not wish for such men to become Swan Knights."

"I will not speak further of it," the esquire replied, and carefully pulled his covers higher about him despite the warmth of the evening. The Armsmaster tried hard to suppress his annoyance by reminding himself that the young man was injured and had probably been badly frightened. So he said nothing more, merely pulling Andrahar's chair over near the bed and waiting silently for the arrival of Kendrion, who knocked but a few moments later. He had been in Imrahil's chambers, which were just down the hall.

"What is the matter, Ornendil?" he asked when the Armsmaster let him in, then caught sight of Andrahar's face. Moving to the convenient bedside chair, he seated himself quietly, set his medicine case upon the floor and folded his hands in his lap.

"Andrahar, will you allow me to take a look at you?" The esquire turned his head back to look at the healer as if surprised that refusal was an option. Kendrion smiled. "I will not force you to, but I am concerned about you, and I think that I could do some things that would make you more comfortable." After a moment, there came a grudging, cautious nod. The healer turned to the Armsmaster.

"Ornendil, would you go and tell the Prince what has happened? And if you would be so kind, have the kitchen send up some boiled water and a basin--if it is still hot, so much the better. I also need some of the bandages and cloths from my medical closet--if that young lad is still about, then have him get them. I require some privacy right now, but I will report to you and the Prince when I am finished here." It was dismissal, firm but polite, and Ornendil departed.

When the door had closed behind him, Kendrion turned his attention back to Andrahar. Getting up, he went and washed his hands in the esquire's washbasin, then returned to the chair and seated himself once more. Careful hands touched the battered face, turning it so that all of the damage could be seen.

"That lip of yours needs stitching, as does your brow," the healer commented. "We will do that presently. Does your head hurt?" A slow nod answered him, and Kendrion peered carefully into his eyes. "That is not surprising, though it does not seem as if your skull is cracked. I wish you had come to me when you were first injured."

"Couldn't," came the response. 

The healer nodded. "I am going to take a look at the rest of you now. Have I your permission to do that?" Another slow nod, and Kendrion slowly pulled the coverlet down. His bedside manner was too good for him to register surprise or dismay, but Andrahar caught a flicker of something in his eyes as he looked at the bruises blossoming upon the young man's body. "I am sorry, Andrahar, but I have to examine you, and it is going to hurt." Yet another small inclination of the head answered him, and he laid his hands upon Andrahar's chest. The esquire sucked in a breath, but held still, his face shuttered and stoic. "I will be as gentle as I can," the healer promised him, then set to his work in earnest.

************

After dinner, the Prince and Ornendil awaited Kendrion in the Prince's study. Kendrion was pleased to find that food awaited him there, thoughtfully provided by Adrahil, for he had missed the evening meal while tending to Andrahar. And the Prince was patient, allowing him to eat for a bit before the questioning began.

"So, Master Kendrion, how did you find your new patient?" he asked at last.

Kendrion dabbed his lips with his napkin. "In worse condition than young Imrahil at this point, my lord. He will be abed for a few days," came the response. "He has a cracked rib, I suspect he has bruised a kidney and I had to stitch a bit on his face. A good patient though-he never flinched a bit."

Adrahil sighed. "Andrahar has lived the sort of life that makes you enduring, if it does not kill you outright. Did he tell you aught of what happened? Did he name names?"

"No, my lord, he named no names. But from what I can gather from the evidence and what little he would tell me, several of the esquires came into his room while he was asleep and subdued him, binding him with their belts. He bears the marks of that upon his wrists and ankles. Once he was safely bound, they beat him. There is one mercy, however--they did no more than beat him."

Ornendil grimaced in distaste. "If you mean what I think you mean, Kendrion, I hardly think that our esquires would indulge in that sort of perversion." The healer gave him a grim look.

"It happens more often than you might think. And since the point of all this was to put him in his place, it would not surprise me had they done so."

Adrahil took a sip of wine from the glass he was turning gently about in his hands, his face troubled. "They wished to put him in his place, you say?"

"Actually, Andrahar said they did it because they believed that he had given Imrahil the _hekadi_," Kendrion answered. "Though I suspect that was merely a convenient excuse for them to vent their hostility upon him."

"How many were there?" the Prince asked. 

"Six, he says. But that is all he says."

"If he will not name names, I do not know how we will find them," Ornendil muttered, his expression glum. Kendrion snorted derisively, and the Prince and the Armsmaster looked at him.

"You have all the means you need, provided you move swiftly. Andrahar did not go down without a fight--his hands are quite battered. I will guarantee he left his mark upon some of them at least."

Adrahil's eyebrows flew up at that. "Golasgil. Casveyllin. Barador, for a start. I noticed at dinner that they looked like they'd been brawling, but thought naught of it--after all, they were out on the town last night." 

Ornendil nodded and got to his feet. "I'll have them brought up here now, and we'll have the truth out of them--and the names of their companions." He moved to the door, opened it--and to his surprise found himself confronting two frightened, shamefaced esquires, one with a hand raised as if about to knock.

"Armsmaster Ornendil, my lord prince," said Peloren. "We have something to tell you." The other esquire, Elethil, nodded.

"May we come in?"

************

The pain was bad, for the beating was among the worst he'd ever experienced in a life that had had its brutal moments, but Andrahar had at first tried to refuse the healer's painkillers, for fear of what would happen when he was insensible. Kendrion, however, would have none of that, and had sent a message off to the Prince. Soon a full-fledged Swan Knight had arrived to guard the esquire's door, thus depriving him of his main argument, and right after that a couple of maidservants had arrived with enough pillows to turn his spartan esquire's cot into an almost comfortable nest. The healer had then commanded him to drink the bitter elixir, carefully helped him to settle himself in the most comfortable position he could achieve, and departed after a fatherly admonition to get a good night's rest.

Within a brief period of time, the drug began to take effect, dulling the pain and making it bearable. But the discomfort was still severe enough to war with the drug, not quite allowing him the respite of sleep. He muzzily contemplated the delicate balance between the two for a while, then his mind moved tiredly onto other matters. 

Three years ago, in the streets of Umbar, the young Heir to Dol Amroth had saved his life, and Andrahar had in turn sworn blood-oath to him. Imrahil had not realized how impertinent Andrahar's action had been, how any promise made by a houseless bastard was considered worthless by the Haradrim. Imrahil had taken his oath seriously, had taken _him _seriously, had accepted that Andrahar had a code of honor that he lived by. Despite Imrahil's excesses, for the most part his service to the young Prince had not been unpleasant, and Andrahar had envisaged himself serving Imrahil for several years to come, until they both went off to war and he one day returned the life-debt he owed the Heir, winning either his freedom or his death. He had never imagined that day coming quite so soon, nor under such circumstances. 

Not that he truly wished to be free of the young Prince, despite Imrahil's reckless ways. Quite the contrary. Imrahil, generous in nature, beautiful almost beyond measure, and with an easy way with people that Andrahar envied and knew he himself would never possess, had captured his heart from the first moment of their meeting. Andrahar sometimes imagined himself a creature crouching in the cold and dark, holding his hands out to the fire that was the Prince to warm them. Other things he imagined as well, upon waking or before sleep claimed him at night, but he was a realist and knew that his desires were not as those of most other men, and certainly not as Imrahil's, who liked the wenches ever so much.

Despite the pain, he frowned as he remembered the Prince's off-hand remark about his tastes to the now departed Falastir. Imrahil had not used to be so thoughtless or heedless, nor so reckless as he was at present. The Haradrim was not sure of the reasons for this change, but he had his suspicions. Prince Adrahil, usually so wise, had come to grief in his early ventures out into the world and because of that was perhaps overmuch careful of his only son. Imrahil, penned in Dol Amroth, chafing at the restrictions and possibly fearful of the responsibilities of the role he'd been born into, expressed his rebellion through excess. And was now rebelling to such an extent that he was arguably in almost as much danger than if Adrahil had let him risk himself in a more militant fashion.

__

I may be partially responsible for this as well, Andrahar admitted to himself bleakly. _He said it himself just the other night: "…so long as you are with me, I am in no danger." He believes me capable of dealing with almost any threat, which is flattering--though more than a bit exaggerated! So long as I am with him, he will not feel compelled to be careful or to look after himself--because that is my job. It may be that to save him, I will have to let him go._

Then there was the matter of the other esquires to consider. He supposed that it would have been prudent to have given Ornendil the names of his attackers, but he had his pride, and was not one of those mewling folk who brought tales to their superiors about their fellows. To do so would have been an admission that he could not take care of the matter himself, that he had been bested by his peers. That he was afraid.

Which he had been. There was very little Andrahar feared--on his feet and with a blade in his hand. But the worse times of his life had occurred when he had been bound and helpless. Pure panic had flared through him once the esquires had secured his hands and feet, for he had known himself to be totally at their mercy. They could have as easily killed him as beaten him, and he wondered why they had not. He would not then have been able to testify against them, should the crime be discovered. Certainly, _he_ would not have been so foolish as to injure and antagonize an enemy, and then let him live!

Though perhaps they knew the truth of the matter, that they were in no danger at all. He was familiar enough now with the noble houses of Western Gondor to know his assailants' pedigrees, and he came from a land where the value of a man's life was coldly calculated by the purity of his blood. Though Andrahar's own blood was as pure as any in Harad, his mother's house had fallen into disfavor and she had been made a slave. At that moment, her worth and that of her offspring had cheapened considerably.

__

You did me no service, Father, he thought with pained irony--and not for the first time, _to favor me above my station as you did! For it did nothing save to awake in me a pride unbecoming my true place and envy in the breasts of my half-brothers. To train me in a nobleman's skills and graces, to instill in me a nobleman's desires when such could never be mine, was an exquisite cruelty. Even if you did it out of love…_

No, despite Ornendil's protestations, and those of the healer, Andrahar expected no justice from the Prince of Dol Amroth, for there was precious little justice in the world, and that was a lesson the esquire had learned long ago. Adrahil punish six of the scions of his finest noble houses for their actions towards a street rat? Fish would sooner walk on land and sing in the streets!

And though his pride would not permit his becoming an informant, it would also not to force him to remain in an untenable situation, now that he had fulfilled the conditions of his oath. Had he still been oath-sworn to Imrahil, he would have had to stay despite the danger, and he would have done so. But he was not, and thus could leave to save his own life. For he knew that the nature of arms training was such that if his fellows wished him ill, there were more than enough ways that fatal accidents could be arranged. Or that, free of any fear of retaliation from their superiors, they might very well try the same sort of thing again, this time killing him outright rather than just injuring him. As good a fighter as he was, he could not stand against such numbers and he did not wish to die bound and beaten. And his own inferior status did not permit him any sort of retaliation.

No, Valyon had warned him, and it behooved him to take that warning seriously. For if he did not, he had no-one but himself to blame for the consequences. It was time to leave Dol Amroth.

************

The next day in the late afternoon, Andrahar awoke from the sleep he had finally achieved to find his bedside chair occupied by a very pasty-faced Imrahil. The Prince's handsome visage was a bit puffy and his eyes were bloodshot. The uncomfortable thought occurred to Andrahar that what he was seeing was a vision of what Imrahil might look like in a few years, should he not change his ways.

"Andra_, _what _happened _to you?" the Prince exclaimed, when he saw his friend was awake.

Andrahar shrugged a little and spoke slowly and carefully. "The others thought that I had given you the _hekadi._ After I brought you home, I went to bed. They came to my room and bound and beat me."

It would have been difficult for Imrahil to become any whiter than he already was, but his eyes widened in appalled horror.

"You were not even in the room with me when I drank it! Did you not tell them that?" 

Andrahar's still-swollen lips, the lower one festooned with black silk stitches that looked like little whiskers growing in entirely the wrong place, moved gradually into a smile that was probably meant to be grim, but unfortunately also had a certain comic quality.

"They were not much interested in…explanations, Imri."

"Well, I must go and tell them! 'The others'? Who exactly did this to you? All of them?"

"I will not say. I do not carry tales. Your father and the Armsmaster may know by now." He paused, tired of talking, and Imrahil, finding a pitcher of water and a cup on the bedside stand, poured him some and offered it to him. The battered esquire lifted his head, and the young Prince slid an arm behind it to support him, and held the cup to his lips. He drank long and deeply, and sighed gratefully as his head sank back onto the pillow. "Thank you. My middle does not bend very well at present." After a moment, he looked over at the Heir curiously. "Are you even supposed to be up?"

Imrahil hunched over, elbows on knees and looked down at the floor. "Kendrion did not say I could _not_ get up, not exactly. I heard him tell Mother that I should not tire myself." He glanced up from under his lashes at Andrahar remorsefully. "I am sorry, Andra--I was a complete and utter fool." 

That look of charming contrition had always served to soften Andrahar's anger in the past, but it was unnecessary now, for he had worked his way through his offence at the Prince's behavior the night before and was now quite calm and merely a little sad. He lifted a bandaged hand and gestured that the Prince should lean closer. When Imrahil did so, Andrahar reached up and cupped his cheek, his thumb caressing the smooth softness. The Heir was being slow to get a beard, if indeed he ever managed to grow one at all. The men of his family were known to lack such things--another proof, it was said, of their Elven heritage.

Grey eyes widened in surprise at Andrahar's touch, but Imrahil neither flinched nor moved away. _Oh, my lovely one, would that I could ease whatever ache it is within you that drives you to do such things!_ the Haradrim thought sadly. Aloud, he said

"Yes. Yes, you were, Imrahil. And I will not be liege-sworn to a fool." The young Prince looked at him, puzzled.

"What do you mean, Andra?"

Andrahar let his arm fall to the coverlet. "The blood oath no longer binds me. I saved your life the other night, and that dispatches my debt to you. When I am well enough to travel, I will ask your father to release me from his service." Imrahil stared at him in astonishment.

"To release you from his service? Why?"

"Because, among other things, I have outstayed my welcome here."

"Because of what they did to you? Andra, give my father the names and 

whoever did this will be punished!" The Haradrim's look of polite skepticism chilled Imrahil's blood.

"You don't believe that," he whispered, dismayed. "Do you honestly think Father will let this go? After three years, do you know so little of him still?"

"I try to have as few expectations as possible, Imri. I find that it spares me much disappointment. And I have other reasons."

"What sort of reasons?"

"This wild behavior of yours--it grows worse by the year. Your father cannot stop you from doing these things. Your mother cannot stop you. _I _certainly cannot stop you. And I care too much for you to watch you die as Falastir did."

"Falastir is _dead_?" came Imrahil's shaken exclamation. "But how? He told me the _hekadi _was not harmful. It wasn't supposed to kill anyone! He said he used it often."

Andrahar sighed wearily. "Have your father or Master Ornendil told you nothing?"

"No! And I do not remember anything after Falastir offered me the drug. As soon as I took my first drink, things got very fuzzy and strange. I had visions, such visions as you can hardly imagine." Imrahil shuddered. "I think I remember the girl calling out to me, but that is all. And later, I could hear you talking to me." 

"The _hekadi_ was tainted, Imri. The people who sell such drugs sometimes put other things in them…to make the effect stronger, or stretch it further. They make more profit that way." He paused to take a moment's rest, then gave the Prince a very pointed look. "It killed the player, and very nearly killed you. That is always the chance you take when you use such a drug. No Haradrim boy of noble caste who had reached the age of seven years would be so foolish as to drink from the cup of a man he had known but a few hours. Much less from a cup that he _knew _contained _hekadi._"

The Heir's brows drew down. "Is that why you wish to leave? Because you think I am a child?"

"You act like one!" Andrahar growled, then winced in pain. Imrahil reached a hand out to him, uncertain of what to do, but Andrahar shook his head very carefully, refusing his Prince's help. "At sixteen," he continued, "I was of an age to be considered a man full-grown in Harad when I first came here to Gondor. I could have married, or entered into binding contracts. You know this. It was explained to me then that the Gondorrim took longer to come to man's estate. But you…I fear you will never grow up! And I am a warrior, not a nursemaid."

Imrahil stared at him, more stunned than offended. "But Andra, what would you do if you left? Where would you go?" The questions were almost plaintive.

Andrahar shrugged cautiously, his manner indifferent. "Pelargir perhaps, or back to Umbar, though that might be dangerous if my half-brothers learned I still lived. Perhaps to the East, or Dunland. It matters little. I am good with a blade, and there is always a market for such men."

"You would serve Gondor's enemies? Where is the honor in that?"

Anger kindled in the Haradrim's dark eyes then. "Men of other nations possess honor as well, Imrahil, even if it is not honor as you understand it! Have you learned _nothing_ these last three years? Besides, everyone knows that bastards have no honor worth mentioning." The bitterness in his words surprised even him, and he turned his head away from the Prince, fixing his eyes upon the wall beside his bed. "I am weary and wish to rest now. Please leave me." There was a rustling noise, then slow footsteps as the Prince made his way to the door. He paused.

"Andra, please stay," came his quiet voice. "I swear to you that I will mend my ways."

"It is too late for that. And as I told you, that is not the only reason."

"Andra…" The plea was just one whispered word, but the pain in it could be easily heard. Andrahar squeezed his eyes shut.

"I have decided, Imri. Please respect that."

There was another moment's silence, then the sound of the door opening, then closing again.


	3. Chapter Three

Prince Adrahil joined his wife for a private dinner that same evening in their rooms. Servants laid the supper swiftly upon their small table, then left. Adrahil seated his wife, dropped a kiss upon her head, then situated himself.

"How is Imrahil?" he asked as he carved her a serving of roast beef. Olwen shrugged.

"Well enough, I suppose," she said, helping herself to the side dishes. "He got up and tottered over to Andrahar's room this afternoon."

"That is good. I hope he got an eyeful."

"Now Adrahil**, **as foolish as he was**—**so foolish that I begin to doubt he could have come from _my_ womb**—**he had nothing to do with those young men attacking Andrahar."

"They had been but waiting for a reason, Olwen, and he gave them one." He laid the slices of roast upon his wife's plate and addressed himself to his own supper.

"Well, he is most distraught," the Princess told him. "Andrahar told him this afternoon that he is leaving." Adrahil frowned.

"Did he say why?"

"Imri said that he had told him he had paid his life-debt, that Imrahil's misbehavior had finally become too much for him. And that he had outstayed his welcome."

The Prince's frown deepened. "There is little I can do about Imrahil's behavior--he rarely pays heed to me. He will have to amend his manners himself. But as to the other matter--I have had the report from Kendrion, and the folk at the brothel have been questioned by Ornendil. Do you know that we owe our son's life twice over to that young man? Once, for knowing what to do about the _hekadi_ and once for killing two men in the brothel who sought to kill Andrahar and put Imrahil out in the street. They feared that he might die in the brothel, and incriminate them. Kendrion says Imrahil probably would not have survived had that happened."

Olwen ate a couple of bites. "I have always liked Andrahar," she remarked placidly when she had finished. "It would be a most grievous thing to lose him."

"I was not happy with Imrahil when he brought him back from Umbar," Adrahil admitted. "I thought it another of his ridiculous flights of fancy. But the young man has proven himself many times over. And it would grieve me as well to lose him because he feared for his life or thought that he was not welcome here."

"Do you know now who attacked him?" Olwen asked over the rim of her cup. The Prince raised his, and clinked it against hers gently before drinking.

"Yes. Peloren and Elethil came to me and admitted their participation, though they did not name their fellows. And as Kendrion had suggested, it was easy enough to find the others--Andrahar is a doughty fighter even when surprised and outnumbered, and he had marked them. Barador, Casveyllin and Golasgil were involved." The Princess sipped, then frowned.

"Most of our noble esquires."

"All of our noble esquires," the Prince amended, after taking a drink from his own cup. "Valyon was part of it as well, though Andrahar never got a blow in on him. He was, in fact, the ringleader. Ornendil discovered him by his hands. His face was unmarked, but his hands were quite bruised, and he was wearing gloves, hot as the day was. He'd have done better to wear them while he was doing the beating, he and Barador both. They were the instigators."

Olwen gave her husband a concerned look. "What will you do?"

"What I must," the Prince said with a sigh. "I cannot permit such behavior among my esquires."

"You would send them down? Over a Haradrim thief? Their fathers will be wroth with you." The Princess' tone suggested she was not actually questioning so much as confirming, and her husband smiled ruefully.

"Ah, but my Swan Knights will understand, and that is what is important! Besides, those lads all have fathers who can obtain them arms training in other ways. But we are the only chance Andrahar will have to make of himself something other than a sword for hire."

"If you can convince him to stay."

Adrahil smiled again, and this time it was the smile that had won Olwen's heart long ago, the charming, disarming smile that made him one of Gondor's most formidable negotiators.

"I have it on good authority," he said, leaning across the table to give his wife a kiss, "that I can be uncommonly persuasive at times."

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

Unaware of his father's intentions, if not of his disapproval, Imrahil spent much time over the next two days in Andrahar's rooms helping to tend him, though the young Prince was still a bit shaky himself. The formerly comfortable relationship of the two young men was all awry. Imrahil, previously the dominant member of the relationship by virtue of both his rank and his social skills, now found himself lessened by his shameful actions and by comparison with Andrahar's courageous ones.

For the first time since he had met the Haradrim, Imrahil was the subordinate, the petitioner who sought favor, and he was uncertain of how to go about it. Conversations, usually free-ranging and easy about all manner of subjects, were now uncomfortably stilted. He wanted to bring Andrahar around to his way of thinking without being too obvious about it, but since any sort of subterfuge was distasteful to him at this time, he was left with few options. Unable to speak directly of the matter, he would look mournfully at his friend, trying to convey his sorrow, but Andrahar seemed unmoved. He hoped that the gentle care with which he tended Andrahar would serve to express his desire that he stay, but there seemed little indication that the Haradrim was getting the message.

Andrahar's imminent departure lay upon the young prince like a heavy black pall. He realized how much he had come to depend upon his friend and was determined not to lose him. But as the hours became days, and nothing he did seemed to convince Andrahar in the least, Imrahil's desperation grew until at last he contemplated using the one method of persuasion he had never tried before.

"Andra," he said, as he helped the Haradrim into bed the second night, "what _must_ I do to convince you to stay? I would be willing to do anything. Absolutely _anything _at all." He had been sliding Andrahar's legs beneath the covers, when his hand came to restupon Andrahar's thigh. It felt slightly moist and hot as a brand through the thin linen of Andrahar's underdrawers.

An absolutely sickening surge of lust and longing came over the esquire then, and for a moment that seemed to last an eternity, he was tempted. _At last, it has happened! Imrahil has agreed to sleep with me! I will have to be very gentle and careful so that he may enjoy it……_

His hand was actually raised to caress the prince's cheek when the circumstances under which the offer had occurred sank in, and anger replaced the lust. The hand dropped swiftly.

"Do you seek to cozen me, Imrahil?" he ground out harshly through clenched teeth. "To _bribe_ me with your body? _You are the Heir to Dol Amroth_! You whore yourself out to _no_ man, least of all me! Get out!"

The young Prince swiftly removed his hand, and pulled the covers up. "But Andra, I thought that was what you wanted!" There was genuine confusion on his face.

"I do! But not like that! Because you want to, not because you want me to do something! Now get out, and do not return!" _For if you stay, you will see me weep, and I do not want that…_

Awareness of the enormity of the mistake he had made was coming over Imrahil's face.

"Andra, I am sorry! I thought--"

"--You do not _think_! You _never_ think! Instead of constantly apologizing, it would be more to the point for you to cease doing the things that make the apologies necessary! Now _GO_!"

His expression one of stricken remorse, Imrahil departed swiftly. Once he had gone, Andrahar turned his face into the pillow and wept a few brief, hot tears. Not many, and not for long, but it was a sign to him of how poorly his self-control had slipped over the last couple of days.

__

I **must** leave this place, he thought to himself wearily, before I am completely undone!

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

In accordance with Andrahar's wishes, Imrahil did not appear the next morning, which made certain necessary morning tasks rather difficult. Aside from the needing the assistance, and despite their current difficulties, Andrahar found himself missing the young prince. Imrahil was never at his best first thing in the morning, but he usually managed to be reasonably good-humored in spite of it. The esquire had not realized how dependent he had become upon the Heir's amiable companionship until he was denied it.

The maid who served the royal family brought him his breakfast, and soon after he had finished it, Master Kendrion came to see him.

"There is an assembly of the Swan Knights this morning, young Andrahar, and Prince Adrahil wishes to know if you are well enough to attend."

"I was upon my feet yesterday, Master Kendrion, and am able to be so again, if he wills it."

"He does indeed. But do not fear that you will have to stand--seating will be provided."

"Then I should be more than capable."

"You will no doubt need some assistance in dressing. I will aid you." It was a statement of intent, so Andrahar did not feel that he could deny the healer, and submittedquietly as Kendrion aided him in putting on his clothing and boots. In truth, he was grateful for the help.

Moving slowly to the mirror to comb his hair when the healer was done, Andrahar rubbed his chin. Imrahil had shaved him the day before, and though he had more beard than the young prince (who was quite jealous of that fact), it looked as if the task could safely wait another day.

"Do you need any further assistance, Andrahar?" Kendrion asked.

"No, Master Kendrion, and I thank you for the aid you have rendered me. But unless we are being summoned halfway across Dol Amroth, I should be well enough."

"The Knights have been called to the Great Hall."

"I can walk so far as that."

"Well then, I trust you will not mind if I walk with you, for the time grows near."

"As you wish, Master."

Walking silently beside the healer, Andrahar speculated briefly about the purpose of the assembly, then made himself stop doing so. The event was upon him, and his curiosity would be satisfied soon enough. Master Kendrion, seeing him uncommunicative, did not try to engage him in conversation, but merely paced quietly at his elbow until they reached the doors of the Great Hall.

Within the hall, rows of benches had been set up and the Swan Knights were seating themselves in order of precedence-senior knight officers to the front, rank-and-file knights in the middle, the esquires on the benches in the back. Large as the Great Hall was, the company of Swan Knights filled it quite completely; there was not very much open area between the front row of benches and the dais whereon the thrones of the Prince and Princess were placed. But within that space was another bench, and before it stood six esquires. At the sight of them, Andrahar stopped in his tracks for a moment.

__

My attackers! What do we do here this day?

Kendrion urged him forwards, not towards the back benches, but the front row bench instead, where Tarondor, a silver-haired senior knight, obligingly moved over to make room for the two of them. There was murmuring and some staring as Andrahar took his place, for the bruises upon his face were still quite livid though the swelling was much reduced.

They had no time to seat themselves, for all rose as Adrahil and his lady entered, followed by Armsmaster Ornendil, and Masters Theorwyn and Illian. The masters and Armsmaster went to the chairs provided for them upon either side of the thrones and stood waiting as the Prince and Princess seated themselves.

"Please, be seated," Adrahil commanded, and with a sighing rustle and the occasional muted clink of metal upon metal the company did so. "We are gathered here today for a serious matter, a disciplinary issue," he explained when all had settled themselves. "And 'tis best, I think, to deal with the matter swiftly, troubling though it may be. Esquires Valyon, Casveyllin, Golasgil, Barador, Peloren and Elethil will rise."

The six esquires stood up. They were all buffed and polished as if for inspection, perhaps in the hope that such precision might inspire clemency, perhaps simply to bolster their own morale. Adrahil surveyed them with a magisterial severity quite unlike his usual kind manner.

"Three days ago, in utter violation of our Code, the six of you set upon your fellow esquire Andrahar while he lay asleep in his room. You attacked and subdued him, binding his limbs so that he could not retaliate, and then some of you beat him till he was so sorely injured that he has only recently been able to rise from his bed. Before I pass judgement upon you, I ask you now, in the company of your brethren, if you have anything to say for yourselves."

There was a long moment's silence and much uneasy shuffling of feet and bowed heads from the accused. Then Valyon stood forth from the others, his head high, and spoke.

"He is naught but a dirty Southron, an unfit companion for the Prince. Your kindness blinds you to this fact, Your Highness! He is the one who keeps leading Imrahil astray, teaching him his filthy Southern vices!"

"That is not true!" Imrahil cried, leaping to his feet where he sat with the other esquires at the back of the company. "Andrahar has never tried to teach me anything of the kind! Indeed, he has oft sought to restrain me from such indulgences. He was not even in the room with me the other night when I drank the _hekadi_. Had he been, he would have tried to stop me, for he has no use for such things, nor respect for those use them!"

Murmuring arose from the esquire benches, and even from some of the knights. Andrahar could not turn to watch the Prince, for his rib pained him too much, but in his mind's eye he could imagine Imrahil, tall and straight, fire in his eyes and his chin in the air, and despite his recent anger at the Heir to Dol Amroth, he was hard pressed not to smile.

"Silence, Imrahil!" Adrahil commanded his heir sternly across the company. "Be seated." Imrahil sank back down upon his bench. "You will have an opportunity to speak in time, if you so wish it. Right now, I want to hear from these gentlemen." He turned his attention back to Valyon.

"Valyon, if you truly believed that Andrahar was guilty of such crimes, you should have reported him to myself or your superiors. Instead, your excuse for this heinous act is that you felt _my_ judgement is lacking? That I erred in admitting someone to the Swan Knights whom _you_ felt was unfit? Is it then your intention to follow orders only when _you_ think they are justified?" The esquire blanched at that, but to his credit, still held his head high. Adrahil frowned. "You are your father's heir, Valyon, and in time will be expected to rule upon matters of law in your own lands. I wish you to consider something. You and your friends took it upon yourselves to accuse, pass sentence upon and punish Andrahar for a crime he did not commit. But even had he committed it, by your actions you usurped my rights as ruler of this demesne! And that is not an offence I take lightly!"

"But, my lord, we did not intend any offense to you!" Golasgil protested. "We just wanted him to go away!"

"And again, you set yourselves against me and thwarted my rule when you did so! Remember this when you come to rule Anfalas, Golasgil. Do any of the rest of you have anything you wish to say?" There was no response. Prince Adrahil sighed heavily. "The most important thing that a Swan Knight learns as an esquire is to trust his brother esquires. This attack of yours upon a brother shows that you are unfit to become Swan Knights. Esquires Valyon, Golasgil, Barador and Casveyllin--you are dismissed from our company, and will be escorted to your homes tomorrow morning."

Faces pale and set, the four esquires bowed and filed out, Casveyllin obviously fighting back tears. The Prince then fastened his gaze upon the two who remained.

"Esquires Elethil and Peloren. Though you would not reveal the names of your fellow conspirators to us, the two of you did come to me and to Armsmaster Ornendil and confess your crimes of your own volition. And Esquire Andrahar says that neither of you struck him, and that you actually tried to dissuade the other esquires from doing so. Because of these facts, I am inclined to be somewhat more lenient towards the two of you." The esquires looked up at him, hope and curiosity mingled upon their faces.

"I will give both of you a choice," the Prince declared. "You may return to your homes, as did the others. Or you may choose instead to serve with the foot for a year as common soldiers. If, upon completion of that year, I receive a favorable report from your commanding officer, I will reinstate you as esquires once more. What say you?"

Elethil and Peloren looked at each, conversed in whispers for a few moments, then Peloren spoke softly.

"We will serve with the foot, if it please your Highness."

Adrahil smiled. "It does indeed please me. Esquires Elethil and Peloren, you are dismissed from our company, but with the hope that you will one day return to it. Report to Sergeant Merith in the morning." The two former esquires bowed and departed as well.

Andrahar sat there stunned, listening for the distant sound of fish singing in the streets. _The Prince of Dol Amroth has just expelled four of Belfalas' noblest young men from the Swan Knights because of their offenses towards me! And he has punished the other two in a manner appropriate for their crimes…for **my **sake! It would seem that, in Dol Amroth at least, even street-rats have some value._

He looked up at the Prince and saw the calm wisdom in his eyes, and his heart twisted painfully in his chest. _As I would never be allowed to rule, it becomes my part to serve. And I will never find a lord worthier of service than this one! With my attackers dealt with, I am in no peril of my life. Perhaps I should stay…but then there is Imrahil…_

Who coincidentally had risen to his feet once more.

"My lord prince?" he inquired of his father, his mode of address indicating that it was the esquire and not the Heir who stood before Adrahil.

"Have you somewhat to say, Esquire Imrahil?"

"Yes, my lord, if you would allow me to do so."

The Prince gestured towards the Swan Knights. "Your brethren are before you. Speak." Imrahil moved to the front of the room where he could be heard by both the company and those upon the dais.

"First of all, I would apologize to my brethren for bringing such strife and divisiveness upon them," he said earnestly. "I bear some responsibility for this, for even as you said, had I not imperiled myself, then my fellow esquires would not have had cause to wrongly blame Andrahar for my troubles." Adrahil raised an eyebrow, but did not otherwise interrupt, and the young Prince continued.

"Secondly, I owe Esquire Andrahar both a profound apology and my most sincere thanks. He saved me from my own folly, and it is far more than I deserve, given the way I have treated him." Imrahil looked at his friend contritely. "I thank you, Andrahar."

Andrahar, his face expressionless, nodded an acknowledgement. The young Prince turned back to his father.

"Thirdly, my lord, I fear that I am not worthy to become a Swan Knight myself at present, for though I did not attack my fellow esquire, I did abuse his trust in other ways. I would ask that I share the fate of Elethil and Peloren, and serve in the foot for a year as a common soldier, that I might better learn to appreciate my brothers in arms."

A murmur arose from the Swan Knights, and a flicker of surprise crossed Adrahil's face. He regarded his son thoughtfully for a moment.

"No Prince of Dol Amroth has ever served so, Imrahil," he said at last, "though it is true indeed that you need to learn an appreciation for those whom you rule and command. But as my Heir there is also much else you need to learn, and while such an experience would undoubtedly be beneficial to you, I cannot spare you for an entire year. Other arrangements have already been made. Captain Erengar's ship the _Asfallin_ sails in the morning, and it seems to me that this would be a good time for you to resume your sea training. You may seek to win your white belt at a later time."

Imrahil stood tall and looked his father in the eye, but Andrahar could see that he was striving to suppress his disappointment. The _Asfallin_ regularly patrolled the coast of western Gondor--there were no stops in exotic ports of call and she only made port in Dol Amroth. It was a necessary duty, but for the most part a tedious one. Adrahil was fulfilling his heir's oft-stated wish to return to sea, but in a way that would minimize his opportunities for getting into trouble.

"Do you accept my judgement in this matter?" the Prince asked his son.

Imrahil bowed. "I do, my lord prince."

"Then Esquire Imrahil, you are dismissed from our company, but with the hope that one day you will return to it. Report to Captain Erengar in the morning." Adrahil was all formality, but the young Prince could see there was a pleased gleam in his father's eye, and the knowledge of Adrahil's approval heartened him somewhat. He bowed and departed, after giving Andrahar a hopeful look. Adrahil, following his glance, turned his keen gaze upon his son's friend as well.

"Esquire Andrahar," the Prince intoned, and the Haradrim got slowly to his feet, straightening to attention with care for his damaged rib. The Prince rose as well, gesturing that the other knights should remain seated, and came down from the dais to stand before the young man.

"Despite the crime perpetrated against you, you held faithfully to our code of conduct, and in fact have ever done so since your admittance to our company, even in the face of prejudice and hatred. And you have been a loyal friend and protector to my son. I commend you for your care of him, and I thank you for his life." Stepping forward to close the distance between them, Adrahil laid gentle hands upon Andrahar's shoulders and kissed him on the brow. He then released him and stepped back.

"I will speak with you again when you are feeling stronger about how I may express my gratitude more fully." Andrahar started to bow in response, despite the pain it would have caused him, but was halted by the Prince's upheld hand and shake of his head, and inclined his own head instead.

"My lord prince is kind."

"Nay, I but seek to reward where reward is merited, as is my duty." He turned and went back to his chair, and his lady wife rose to stand beside him. All of the Knights and esquires then got to their feet.

"This assembly is concluded, gentlemen." Everyone stood quietly until the Prince and Princess had exited, whereupon the Swan Knights all began to mingle and talk among themselves while the esquires leapt to remove the benches from the hall under Master Ornendil's direction. Kendrion's hand upon Andrahar's kept him from joining in the toil, and he found himself the object of some attention and praise from the senior knights. He submitted to this as graciously and modestly as possible until weariness began to overwhelm him, whereupon the healer shooed the knights away as if they were a flock of fowl, and escorted him back to his room.

Once there, he did off his uniform with Kendrion's help and crawled gratefully back into his nest of pillows, where he slept the remainder of the day away.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

"Andra? Andra, wake up. I have your supper." Imrahil's voice and the smell of roasted meat roused Andrahar, who cracked his eyes open to find that the sun had just set and the Heir to Dol Amroth was perched on the chair beside his bed with a tray in hand.

"I know you said that you did not wish for me to return, but I wanted to say goodbye to you before I sailed, and I thought you would not mind if I brought your supper." The young Prince's manner was uncharacteristically tentative, as if he feared to be rebuffed.

The Haradrim pushed himself up onto an elbow with a pained grunt.

"No, Imri, I do not mind. In truth, I wish that you had come earlier--I did not intend to sleep the day away." Imrahil gave him a relieved smile, glanced over his shoulder out the window, then turned his attention back to helping Andrahar sit up and take the dinner tray.

"You must have needed the rest," he commented, much more cheerful now that he was sure of his welcome. "But I fear that you will be awake half the night now."

Andrahar lifted both his fork and an eyebrow. "I could always come to your room and help you pack. Or you will be up half the night yourself, doing it a dozen times, finicky as you are."

The corners of the Heir's mouth twisted up into a wry grin. "Are you not afraid that I will try to seduce you once more?" Andrahar was already applying himself to the tender roast, and took a moment to chew and swallow--and collect himself--before replying.

"I think that you have learned your lesson about that," he said at last, with a reasonable semblance of calm.

Imrahil's brow furrowed, and his voice was sincere when he said, "Andra, I really did mean it. I know that you have always wanted it, and I wouldn't have minded."

"Ah, but that is exactly the point. You have always known that I wanted it, but never before did you offer. Not until you wanted something from me." He took a drink from the tankard on the tray before continuing with a complaint. "Besides, your timing was piss-poor--I am much too battered to be able to enjoy that sort of thing right now!" Despite himself, laughter exploded from Imrahil, and Andrahar smiled a little. "Leave it, Imri. It is done, and we will not mention it again."

Sobering, the Heir asked, "Have you made any decisions yet about where you are going?"

Andrahar shook his head. "I will probably just see what is available here, and if there is nothing to my liking, journey to Pelargir, and find something there."

"I will worry about you, making your way alone in the world."

"I made my way alone in the world for five years before you showed up."

"And look how well you did!" That won the Prince a disgruntled frown from his friend, but after a moment Andrahar's face cleared, and he chuckled.

"You do have a point. But I am much more dangerous now." He started to eat in earnest, then paused. "Did you not bring anything for yourself? Would you like to join me?"

"I cannot," Imrahil said regretfully. "Mother and Father wish me to dine with them this evening, as it is my last night on land."

"Well then, by all means you should go to them." The Haradrim looked down at his plate, seemingly contemplating his next attack upon his supper, then back up again. "Your father surprised me today, Imri . I never expected anything like that to happen."

"I told you that he would not suffer such injustice in his realm."

Andrahar nodded. "So you did. And you were right. But it was a surprise nonetheless. I had long been accustomed to thinking that justice…was not for the likes of me."

"Perhaps it is not in Umbar or the rest of Harad or even the rest of Gondor. But such is not the case in Dol Amroth," the Heir declared with a roguish smile. "Which is a very good reason for you to decide to stay here."

"Cozening me again, are you?"

"No, merely trying to persuade you."

"Well, your efforts to persuade me are going to make you late for your dinner with your parents. I do not wish to offend my sole arbiter of justice, so get you gone! And when you are done with dinner, if you wish my help preparing your things, then come and get me. I dare say I shall be awake." Imrahil nodded, rose and left.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

False dawn was glowing faintly through Imrahil's windows when he gave his sea-bag a last doleful look and turned to Andrahar, who had spent a couple of hours after dinner the night before helping the Prince as he had promised with the almost impossible task of winnowing Imrahil's extensive wardrobe down to the minimal levels that would fit into his allotted stowage. The esquire had returned just minutes before to say his farewells.

"They'll be bringing the carriage around any moment--I must get down to the ship," Imrahil said somberly. "Will you not bide here until I return, Andra--for your own sake as well as mine? Those who attacked you are no longer here. You are not in danger, and I will not be troubling you. You could be a full-fledged knight by the time my tour on the _Asfallin_ is done."

Andrahar shook his head. "My decision is made, Imri."

"If you go, I do not know when we will meet again." The Haradrim made one of his eloquent hand gestures.

"My people have a saying--that Fortune loves to reunite friends or enemies. I suspect our paths will cross again." He smiled wryly. "Hopefully, we will not be on opposite sides of a battlefield when they do."

The Heir contemplated that depressing prospect for a moment, then stepped forward and took his friend into his arms, careful of his injured rib.

"The Valar guard and guide you, Andra," he murmured.

Andrahar closed his eyes and took a deep breath._ Since it is farewell, perhaps he will not mind just this once_, he told himself as he gave in to his long-leashed desires for a moment, first embracing Imrahil fiercely in turn, then even daring to kiss him lightly upon the lips. When he opened his eyes and looked up at his friend a moment later, he saw neither returned passion nor disgust, but rather warm affection and acceptance.

"The water is to stay _outside_ of the boat at all times," he growled gruffly at Imrahil, while struggling to regain his composure. "And you are to stay _on_ the boat at all times!"

The young Prince's eyes lit up with sudden mirth, and he laughed in the way that Andrahar loved best. "It is a _ship_, Andra, but I will bear that ever in mind. You be careful as well!"

"I am good enough that I do not have to be careful." Andrahar declared, his chin lifted in mock pomposity. Imrahil laughed again, a dramatic hand clutching his chest.

"Someone has a good opinion of himself!"

"Since everyone else about me considers me some sort of fiend, I have to have a good opinion of myself!"

"I have a very good opinion of you," came the Prince's statement, his voice grave once more, just as a knock sounded at the door.

"I know that, Imri," Andrahar answered, equally quiet, as the servant outside announced that the coach was ready. Imrahil said no more, but picked up his sea-bag and slung it over his shoulder. He moved to the door, opened it, and paused for a moment in the doorway, looking back at his friend. Andrahar lifted his hand, the Heir nodded with a sad smile, and departed.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

Later that same day, Prince Adrahil summoned Andrahar to him. The esquire entered his study to find him staring pensively out the window over the harbor.

"My lord?" he announced his presence quietly. Adrahil turned, and smiled.

"Ah, Andrahar! Do come in, and by all means, sit down." The Prince indicated a comfortable chair that stood before his desk, and Andrahar sank into it carefully. Adrahil then seated himself in his own chair and folding his hands upon the desk, addressed the esquire softly.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better, my lord. Master Kendrion has been most thorough in his treatment of my injuries. I expect that I will be completely healed before very long."

"My son informs me that you wish to leave my service when you are well enough to do so. Is that true?"

"Yes, my lord prince."

"I am not unaware of the…difficulties…you have been experiencing with Imrahil, not to mention the rest of the esquires. But I feel that it would be unwise for you to leave Dol Amroth before your training is finished. May I explain my thoughts upon the matter to you?"

"Of course, my lord prince." Adrahil smiled.

"If you leave now, I have no doubt that with your skills, you can find work as a mercenary most anywhere, including Harad. You could even hire out in Pelargir as a bodyguard or merchant caravan escort. But it would be work as a common sell-sword, and you would have to advance yourself the hard way. If you wished to remain in Gondor, you would quite frankly find your way hampered by your origins. I think that you know this."

The esquire nodded, and leaning back in his chair, the Prince continued. "If, on the other hand, you were to complete your Swan Knight training, I would be willing to give you such a glowing recommendation that you could take an honored place as an officer in any company in Belfalas, Anfalas or even the rest of Gondor. A much more appropriate use for a young man of your talents, to my way of thinking."

Andrahar stared at him, astonished. "Why, my lord, have you such concern for my future?"

"This is not about my wanting you to continue to nanny Imrahil, if that is what you fear, Andrahar," the Prince reassured him. "As you know, he sailed this morning, and is no longer your concern." His expression became pensive.

"I never won my white belt--not all of the Princes do," Adrahil said quietly, after a moment's pause. "Some do not care to, and some try and do not succeed. When I was a young man, I went to sea and caught one of those recurrent southern fevers. It damaged my health at that time to such an extent that my career in arms was effectively ended, temporarily at least, and by the time I had recovered, I had found other aspects of governance more to my liking, and concentrated upon them instead."

"Nonetheless," and he leaned forward once more, picking up a quill and toying absently with it, "as both Heir and ruling Prince, I have supervised the Swan Knights for most of my adult life, and watched enough warriors that I think I am a fair judge of them. And you are something extraordinary. I should truly hate to lose you, but if you are set upon leaving, then out of thanks for your care of Imrahil, I am going to see that your prospects are as favorable as possible." He rose, setting the quill aside, and Andrahar rose as well. Moving to a cloth-draped table at the side of the study, he indicated with a gesture that the esquire should join him, and Andrahar did so.

"Four, if I recollect correctly, is the number that denotes _choice _in the numerology of your people, does it not?" the Prince inquired in a rather odd change of topic. The Haradrim, confused, nodded.

"Choice, or possibility, my lord. Because of the four winds, and the four quarters of the compass."

"Then I am giving you a choice. Not to stay or to go, but another decision, one about a traveling companion that will remain with you whether you stay with us or seek your fortune elsewhere." He drew away the cloth, and Andrahar's eyes went wide. Four swords lay upon the table, and not a one of them was a common blade, though they varied greatly in size, shape and in the degree of ornamentation that adorned them. The first was the flashiest, with a sizeable sapphire for a pommel stone. The second sword was plain, but there was a severe purity to its design that was very pleasing. The third blade looked like something like a cross between a scimitar and a Gondorian blade, and the scabbard was ornamented with leaf tracings. The fourth was a scimitar in truth, with a beautifully graven scabbard and a hilt with an elaborate lacing of braided leather.

"Choose one," the Prince commanded, indicating the blades. "A swordsman such as yourself deserves a good blade, and I know better than to press one upon you willy-nilly. Take whichever suits you best."

"These are all too magnificent for the likes of me, my lord!" Andrahar protested, but Adrahil shook his head.

"They are not if I say that they are not. Take all the time you like, but choose! If you would leave us, I will see that you go out into the world properly equipped, in thanks for your service to my son. Think you his life not worth one fine sword?"

There was, of course, but one answer to that, and Andrahar leaned over the table to peer more closely at the swords for a moment, then closed his hand about the hilt of the first one, the one with the sapphire pommel, and drew it. It had scarce cleared the scabbard before he knew that the balance was wrong for him, too tip-heavy, and he immediately sheathed it.

The second sword's clean elegance appealed to him; when drawn, the wavy sheen of its blade proclaimed it to be sea-steel, possibly from Numenor itself. Andrahar's mind boggled at the idea of a prince who had so much wealth that he could afford to give such a blade away as if it were a mere bauble. A careful swing or two proved the sword's balance every bit as good as its steel, and he set it back upon the table unsheathed for further consideration.

The third blade also did not suit him; too light for his taste, though it was well-balanced. He hesitated before taking the fourth sword up, but even before the blade was fully out of the sheath, he knew his choice was made--the hilt fit his hand as if made for it. The wavy-patterned blade hissed softly as it was drawn from its elaborate casing, and a rare, joyous smile creased his face. Falling into stance despite his injury, he made a few slow passes with it, one- and two-handed, reveling in the feel of a sword that truly suited him.

"This one," he said, a bit unnecessarily after a moment, and Prince Adrahil smiled.

"So be it. It is yours." Andrahar sheathed the scimitar and the sea-steel blade, then took up the scimitar possessively once more. The Prince indicated the sword with the sapphire pommel.

"_Swanwing_. Carried in the past by several of the Heirs to Dol Amroth, though its balance does not suit Imri any better than it does you."

"_Starfall_, this blade is named," he continued, gesturing towards the second sword that Andrahar had almost chosen. "Sea-steel, and a relic of one of the lords who sailed with Imrazor. His house ended long ago. Named thusly because it is said that a piece of the metal it was forged from fell from the sky. Princes of our house have also borne this blade from time to time."

Adrahil then traced a light finger down the scabbard of the third sword. "This blade has no name. Lord Gildor says it is of Elven make, but either knows nothing, or will tell nothing of its history. How it even came to be in our keeping is something of a mystery. When it was offered back to him in my grandsire's time, he said that it would do well enough where it is."

Lastly, he came to the scimitar. "And according to our armory records, 'tis said that this blade is _Nightshade_."

Andrahar stared at the swords in awe. He had known the blades were special, but had never imagined that the Prince would offer him such precious heirlooms of his house. As for the scimitar, if what Adrahil said was true, then legend was what he held now in his hand. "I do not see how it could be _Nightshade_, my lord," he said doubtfully. "T'was always said that it was lost in the retreat from Pelargir, where the Umbarians slew Minardil."

"You know the story then?"

"Yes, my lord. T'was said to be one of three remaining blades crafted by the great swordsmith Mahiran. One of the other two is held by the _khan_ of Khambaluk, and the last is the _ka-khan's _sword of state." Andrahar stroked a hand gently down the scabbard.

"_Nightshade_ belonged to Kedara, the _khan_ of Lokhar. He was a mighty warrior, the last of his house, and in the full flower of his strength, but had never married. He had a friend, a shield brother, Asinyal, lord of a clan friendly to his, also young and unmarried."

"The two of them had thrown in with Castamir, and when he was repelled from Pelargir, they were separated in battle. Mighty as he was, Kedara fought with the rearguard, and was one of the last to make it aboard ship safely, only to find that his friend and some of the other rearguard had been trapped amidst a horde of Gondorrim. Despite the pleas of the other lords, he leapt from the ship to shore, and fought his way back to his friend's side. And there they died, back to back."

Andrahar gave the Prince a wry look. "There is an epic poem about it, very popular among my people. The Gondorrim do not come off very well in it."

Adrahil nodded, unoffended. "I know. I have read it. But we were not quite the villains that it claims. For instance, at least according to the chronicles we have here, we did not dishonor the bodies as the poem says. They were given to the Fire in accordance with the customs of your people, and out of respect for their deeds."

"The sword should have been returned."

"To whom? As you say, Kedara had no surviving kin, and this fact was widely known. And I will admit that my ancestors had their own covetous, piratical moments from time to time." The Prince looked down upon the sword in Andrahar's hand. "Besides, today it _was_ returned, in a manner of speaking. A fitting blade for another young man of valor and prowess. Perhaps it has even been waiting for you here all this time--who can say?" He then looked back up at Andrahar, and solemnly asked, in Haradric and in the formal manner of the esquire's people, "Andrahar of Umbar, _I would know your father's name_."

Andrahar gaped at the Prince, astonished. Among the Haradrim, it was forbidden that a bastard should ever volunteer his lineage, and though he was no longer in Harad, Andrahar had held to faithfully to the custom. Only Imrahil knew of his family, because Imrahil had asked. The formal request was one of the highest compliments a bastard could receive. It said that his deeds were noble and worthy of praise no matter the circumstances of his birth.

__

The inner garden, the sun burning white in the sky at midday, the myriad scents of the flowers heavy in the hot air. Sparring with his instructor in arms while his father watched from a couch beneath an awning. Andrahar's mother Ariyë was at the lord's feet, embroidering a festival shirt for her son, and from time to time Isfhandifar's hand would glide lovingly over her sleek black head. Only a couple of months would pass before things would change irrevocably. This was his last, happiest memory of that life.

Andrahar slipped through his teacher's guard and touched him, then straightened and bowed to the man, the bout over. His father would insist upon these displays from time to time, that he might monitor his son's progress. Isfhandijar beckoned teacher and pupil over. Both made obeisance and the swordsman spoke.

"You can see it is as I have said, my khan. He is moving beyond my poor skills, and at such a young age! He needs a proper sword master now."

Isfhandijar nodded, and passed a sizeable purse to the man. "Then he shall have one. My thanks to you for your diligence and care." The man, very pleased, bowed once more and departed to return to the other pupils whom he oversaw in the khan's household. Andrahar's father beckoned him over, indicating the floor beside his couch, next to his mother, who smiled as the boy approached. Andrahar knelt, and bowed his head respectfully.

"You learn your weapons well, my tiger," Isfhandijar's deep voice rumbled in approval. "Now if only your book learning were so advanced…"

"It is difficult for me, my lord," Andrahar murmured apologetically. "Except for the languages. But I will try harder."

The khan poured him a cup of mint tea from the table next to the couch with his own hands and offered it to him.

"I know that you will." He reached out, slipped a hand behind Andrahar's sweat-soaked head and drew it close, pressing a kiss upon his brow. "And I am very proud of you this day." Andrahar, pleased by the praise, smiled at his father. Isfhandijar gestured towards his mother. "Have you seen what your mother has wrought for you? Is it not appropriate?" Andrahar admired the small, snarling tigers embroidered upon the collar and cuffs of the shirt, for they were much to his taste, and gave Ariyë a kiss. His father's hand touched his head then like a blessing, sword calluses catching a bit upon his soft hair.

"You will serve our house well, my tiger, when your claws have come in," he said softly. "I wish that you could rule instead of serve, but that is not your destiny. Always remember, though, that you have my blood in your veins. And that you carry my love with you always as well." That last was said even more quietly, whispered close to his ear, and Andrahar wondered why--until he felt eyes upon his back and turned his head to see Iskhandar, the youngest of Isfhandijar's legitimate sons, staring at him with absolute hate from across the garden…

"Andrahar? Is something wrong?" The Prince's query cut through the fog of reminiscence surrounding him. Andrahar looked up, and to his great shame had to blink a couple of times before his vision cleared. But Adrahil either did not notice or was politely feigning that he did not.

"I am sorry, my lord prince. Your words of my father…caused me to remember him." He took a couple of deep breaths in an effort to master himself.

"It was not my intention to cause you pain."

"You did not, sir. My memories of my father are good ones." Andrahar fell silent, stroking _Nightshade's _sheath, until he became aware of the Prince's expectant gaze upon him and realized that he had never answered Adrahil's question.

"You honor me more than I deserve, my lord, but if you truly wish to know--my father was Isfhandijar, late the _khan_ of Bakshir."

If Adrahil was surprised to learn that his son's street-rat was the offspring of one of the most important rulers in Harad, he did not show it.

"Do you know, I actually encountered your father years ago?" he said thoughtfully. "I was doing some trade negotiations for Ecthelion. I did not speak to him, but he was there with the delegation and I was told who he was. You look a great deal like him--which explains the feeling I've had from time to time that I'd seen you somewhere before."

"Indeed, my lord?'

"Indeed. And I think that if he were here today, Isfhandijar would be very proud of his son."

A rare blush suffused Andrahar's cheeks. "There is no way of ever knowing that, my lord prince. But I have tried to carry myself as I believe he would have wished me to."

"And how do you suppose he would advise you, were he here and knew of your current situation?" The Prince's tone was mild, but Andrahar knew his question was anything but casual.

"As I could never become a lord myself because of my birth, he would have preferred me to be in honorable service to a worthy lord rather than become a mercenary," the Haradrim admitted slowly.

"Even a _Gondorrim_ lord?" Adrahil asked with a smile.

"My people admire worthy opponents, sir. You have always treated me fairly. Your justice towards both friend and foe is known throughout Belfalas and beyond. As my own folk and family have sought to enslave or slay me, I do not think my father would be shamed by my serving Adrahil of Dol Amroth."

The Prince smiled again, and returned to his chair, seating himself once more. "I thank you for that, Andrahar--praise from an honorable man is a treasure indeed! But I will not press you to give me a decision now, for there is no reason to rush--you would be some time healing before you could resume your duties anyway." He looked up at Andrahar, and his gaze was very direct.

"When Imrahil first brought you home, I did not want you here. I thought you an uncouth barbarian who would lead my son into trouble. I was wrong about that, and many other things. You have a home here, for as long as you like, for the rest of your life if you should so choose. I do not think there are many other places in the world of which that can be said for you. But I will respect any decision you choose to make."

Andrahar bowed deeply then, despite his rib and before Adrahil could stop him.

"I thank you, my lord prince, for both that kindness and the blade."

"And I thank you again for my son's life, and your service."

Whereupon the Prince inclined his head graciously and indicated with a gesture that Andrahar was free to go. The esquire was just opening the door when he spoke again.

"Consider your choice wisely, Andrahar. Take the time to explore all of your options. Good afternoon."

Andrahar nodded and departed with much to think upon.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

That night, Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth dreamed. Not the usual sort of dream common to common men, but the prescient vision that plagued his family from time to time, equal parts frustrating and useful.

But this was not a troubling vision of some future doom. It was merely a single image, of two men upon a battlement in the evening. He could not discern if the battlement was Minas Tirith, or Dol Amroth, or some other unknown fortress entirely, but after a moment, it became apparent that one of the men was Imrahil, come to maturity and beyond, his hair starting to silver, and the other was Andrahar, his blue-black tresses gone gaily striped with grey. The two conversed together, leaning upon the merlon, their shoulders touching, and though Adrahil could not discern the words of their conversation, their manner was that of very old friends who were totally comfortable and at ease with each other.

When his wife asked him the next morning if he thought he'd persuaded Andrahar to stay, the Prince was noncommittal. But he was unsurprised when, two days later, the Haradrim came to him and said that he would complete his training.


	4. Chapter Four

September 2975

The early morning air was humid, a promise of yet another oppressive September day. The summer had been a hot one, and that heat was lingering into the early fall. Andrahar withstood it better than most by virtue of his heritage, and more than one copiously sweating soldier or knight glared in disgruntled irritation at his cool demeanor.

"The Steward has invited us to spar with members of the Fountain Guard and the City Guard tomorrow morning," Lord Aerandir had announced the night before during the evening meal. Aerandir was several years older than Adrahil, and oversaw the Prince's household in Minas Tirith. He was also Adrahil's illegitimate half-brother, a fact the Swan Knight had disclosed to a dumbfounded Andrahar soon after his arrival in the White City. He had overseen the last part of Andrahar's training with a firm but gentle hand, while his wife Eilinel, her own children having long since flown the nest, had taken the Haradrim under her wing for what she considered was some much-needed mothering. Andrahar, uncomfortable with feminine attention, had initially resisted, but to no avail--Eilinel had simply ignored his protests and prickly demeanor. She fussed over him, reminding him to wear his cloak when the weather was cold, to be careful of the sun when it was hot, and baked him honey-cakes on a regular basis.

He had accompanied all of the royal family save Imrahil to Minas Tirith for Yule the previous year, but while the Prince and Princess had returned to the coast shortly after the holidays, Princess Finduilas had remained. She seemed to genuinely like Andrahar, and whether for that reason or because she felt some responsibility towards her brother's waif now that Imrahil was gone, she had requested that he remain as part of her personal guard.

While such attention was flattering, it had caused problems for Andrahar, who had become a knight-probationer upon completion of his training. Knights who had come into the company because of their valor in battle in the foot companies were immediately elevated to full Knight status on completion of their terms as esquires. But the young, noble, unblooded esquires became Knight-probationers until such time as they proved themselves in battle. Andrahar had yet to participate in his first true conflict so that he might attain full status; therefore, he was somewhat irritated at being mewed in Minas Tirith.

The reason for Finduilas' protracted stay in the City was the guarded courtship being conducted by Lord Denethor, the Steward's Heir, who at forty-five years of age, could certainly not be accused of impetuosity in matters of the heart. In his capacity as Captain-General, he was also not the sort of man to ask for aid, even in the interest of building cooperation and amity between Gondor's various warrior factions. So as time went on, Andrahar's initial hopes that the Swan Knights would be invited to patrol a bit around Cair Andros or Osgiliath had faded. And when he contemplated all the opportunities for combat in the border patrols of Belfalas that he had lost because of Finduilas' request, he silently cursed royal 'favor', and struggled to cultivate patience.

He also had to combat his longing for Imrahil, which only increased as time went on, despite the duties which kept his days full. The Heir wrote to him regularly, though the letters tended to come in bunches because of the way they were delivered in port, and he conscientiously wrote Imrahil back, though correspondence had never been a talent of his, and he felt that his letters were much more dull than those the Prince sent him. Andrahar's absence aside, Imrahil was enjoying his time at sea, and the obvious love for maritime things that pervaded his correspondence made Andrahar realize there was a very good possibility that he himself would have to go to sea one day in the future, if he wished to remain at Imrahil's side.

Which he did. Any lingering ideas that remained about going off to be a mercenary had vanished by the time two months had passed. He would live and die a Swan Knight, serving both of his princes and their family, and for the most part, he was content with that decision. He had thrown himself into his martial training with such fervor, requesting additional lessons from his sword instructors, that he had passed his tests for knight-probationer with flying colors, exhibiting the proficiency in arms of a much more experienced warrior. This had not gone unnoticed by either his superiors or his fellow knights.

"Ecthelion wishes to judge the results of his latest training programs," Aerandir had explained the night before. "While this is merely a friendly competition, and we are all on the same side, I know that I speak for the Prince as well as myself when I say that there had better be Minas Tirith men laid upon the ground in great numbers tomorrow." Laughter ran around the room, and Aerandir smiled. "We have been asked to bring a dozen of our best, so these are the knights who will accompany me…." The list that had followed included eleven full-fledged, battle-hardened Swan Knights and one knight-probationer, Andrahar of Umbar.

Which was how Andrahar found himself watching the first bouts in the courtyard of the Citadel that morning, broad swordsman's hands hooked into his black-bordered white belt. Finduilas had accompanied the Steward this morning, the redoubtable Lady Tirathiel acting as her chaperone. Ecthelion's entourage also included the enigmatic Captain Thorongil, the silver star-brooch that never left his person gracing his tabard instead of the cloak the heat had rendered unnecessary. Chairs had been set up under an makeshift awning for the comfort of the exalted observers and esquires stood ready with refreshments. Ecthelion and his guests chatted amiably as the bouts were arranged. Lord Denethor was overseeing things for the Minas Tirith side, as Lord Aerandir did for Dol Amroth.

The first combats went well enough, the Swan Knights more than holding their own. Andrahar did note some improvement among Minas Tirith's warriors, and wondered if Captain Thorongil was responsible for it. Certainly, his eyes were intent upon the fighting, and he had little to say to the others.

"Andrahar," Aerandir called, and he went out to face his first opponent, a City Guardsman. The Haradrim was coming into the fullness of his strength and speed, and the years of intensive instruction at Dol Amroth had served to put the polish on what had been an already extensive grounding in swordsmanship and a great natural talent. The Guardsman was defeated in short order, and murmurs arose from the noble audience at the impressive display. Over the next hour, as the sun mounted higher in the sky, he fought two more bouts and won them both, though the last, with the senior commander of the Fountain Guard himself, was hard contested. Nonetheless, those who were watching had not expected the commander to lose to a junior knight any more than the commander had himself, and there were many exclamations of disbelief. Only Thorongil seemed unsurprised.

Andrahar's defeated opponent saluted him graciously, and he looked up to see the Steward of Gondor beckoning to him. He advanced to a space a few feet from Ecthelion, and went to one knee, head bowed. The Steward, a bluff, genial man, indicated that he should rise.

"So you are Adrahil's Haradrim of whom I have heard so much. Formidable, very formidable indeed."

"My lord Steward is kind."

"Where did you learn such swordsmanship?"

"In Harad, when I was young, and in Dol Amroth, my lord."

Denethor, who had sought both Finduilas and a moment's shade under the awning, laid a hand upon the lady's shoulder, and commented, "'Tis strange that you should be so skilled with a blade. I had heard that you were a common thief whom Prince Imrahil had brought out of the stews of Umbar."

"There is nothing common about Andrahar," Finduilas declared, looking up at her suitor with a slight frown. The Steward's Heir inclined his head to her respectfully before continuing his questioning.

"Nonetheless, street-rats do not generally have access to sword-masters. What is your true lineage, Andrahar of Umbar? And what do you do here?"

"I have no house and no father, my lord," Andrahar replied flatly, as the custom of his people required, chin held high. "I serve the Prince Adrahil and his family, by my sworn word and sword. That is what I do here."

"A bastard then, are you?" Ecthelion said, with a seeming lack of tact. Andrahar knew, however, that the Steward was much more astute than he sometimes chose to appear.

"Yes, my lord."

"Such men must make their way in the world as best they can, but it looks as if you're doing well enough for yourself. Think you that you could take him, Thorongil?"

The captain looked up at Andrahar for a moment with piercing grey eyes. "It would be an interesting contest, my lord. But not today. The young man has already fought three hard bouts, and I am fresh. It would not be fair."

Ecthelion nodded. "A valid point. Another day, then--I insist upon it. It should be a marvelous fight. What do you think, Denethor?"

"Foreigner versus foreigner? Interesting indeed." The Heir's expression indicated that he was anything but intrigued by the prospect. "If you will excuse me, father, my lady, I must see to the last bouts." He went in search of Aerandir, and the day's trials were soon concluded, with the Swan Knights winning the contest by a modest margin. The Steward then took his entourage off to be consoled in their defeat by an early lunch. Captain Thorongil remained behind, speaking to his men, but when he saw that the Swan Knights were about to depart, he approached Aerandir and asked to speak to Andrahar for a moment.

"Of course, Captain," had come the commander's reply. "Andrahar, return to us when Lord Thorongil is done with you." The Haradrim bowed to his superior officer, turning to regard the captain curiously once the Swan Knights had departed.

He had to look up, for Thorongil was a very tall man, and the captain bent his head that he might meet Andrahar's gaze directly.

"Walk with me, if you would be so kind," Thorongil murmured, and Andrahar fell in beside him. The captain's course took him across the Citadel courtyard, and into the second circle of the city.

"I should very much like to spar with you when the opportunity arises," he said quietly, as they strolled along. "I hope that you did not think I did not wish to. But I deemed the circumstances unfair to you."

Andrahar shrugged. "They were unfair to you as well. If you had won, then Lord Denethor would have claimed you had taken advantage of my weariness, and if you had lost, then he would have considered you to have been showing off before his father. It is well known that the two of you are at odds."

Thorongil's mouth twitched, and amusement glimmered in his eyes. "And it is as I had hoped--you are an observant young man. So I ask you this--how long has it been since you were last in Umbar?"

"Four years."

"What parts of the city were you most familiar with?"

"The dock district and the lower portions, some of the upper markets. I know a little of the richer precincts, but that knowledge is much older than the other, and nowhere near so reliable. I was very young at the time." He said nothing about the reason for that knowledge, and the captain did not press the issue.

"Do you think I could pass as a native in the City, were I to go there?" Thorongil inquired, speaking suddenly in Haradric. Andrahar cocked his head to one side, and looked at him skeptically.

"I do not know. Speak again. Why is it you wish to know these things?"

"I had thought to pay a little visit to our southern neighbors, just to take a look around," the captain continued in Andrahar's mother tongue. "I am not planning any sort of major military action, and I wished to go unseen."

The young knight pursed his lips. "I see a problem with your plan. You could darken your skin easily enough, but you have Umbarian eyes and a sand-rat's accent. I do not know where you learned your Haradric, but there are no light-eyes among the desert folk. You must amend either your speech or the color of your eyes. I suspect the former would be easier than the latter."

"Providing I could find someone who speaks the Umbarian dialect."

Andrahar gave him a guileless look. "Lord Denethor speaks it."

Thorongil grinned in response, and the departure from his usual severity changed his face entirely. He was, the esquire decided, a very handsome man, though he did not move Andrahar in the same way that Imrahil did. "I would rather not trouble Lord Denethor with this matter." His voice was almost prim.

"The Steward does as well."

"But not like a native."

Seeing where this was leading to, Andrahar warned, "You would have to apply to my commander and my lady for permission."

"If it were granted, would you be willing to help me?"

"If it were granted, then I would."

"Excellent!" The captain bounced slightly upon his heels, then turned to him once more. "Do you fight in the double-hand style? With two scimitars?"

"I know a little of the style, but I am hardly a master."

"Nor am I. But I would greatly enjoy trying it with you."

"As the captain wishes."

"I look forward to it."

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

Thusly did Andrahar make the acquaintance of Captain Thorongil, who petitioned both Lord Aerandir and Princess Finduilas successfully. And thus did he find himself spending a couple of evenings a week after dinner speaking Haradric to Ecthelion's most favored captain. Thorongil was swift of wit, and had a good grounding in the language already--Andrahar's task was to work upon inflection and accent and some dialect-specific vocabulary.

As promised, Thorongil also sparred with him, though by unspoken agreement the sessions were private ones at the Dol Amroth townhouse, without Ecthelion as an audience. The captain, Andrahar had noticed, took great pains to downplay the Steward's favoritism towards him, though his efforts did little to appease Ecthelion's son. And he was Andrahar's master where the sword was concerned, with a unique style, whippy and fluid, the likes of which the Haradrim had never seen before. When questioned, Thorongil would not say where he had learned his blade work, though Andrahar knew that it was not in Rohan, no matter what the captain said about having served in Thengel's household. In the last year the young knight had sparred with a couple of Rohirrim, members of an embassy to the Steward, and found them to be straightforward fighters, with an emphasis on power over speed, and very fond of shield-bashing--not the captain's manner of fighting at all.

Andrahar had Thorongil's swiftness if not his reach, so the captain's style suited him well, and he eagerly absorbed anything the quiet northerner would teach him. The captain, like Andrahar himself, was a taciturn man, but an extremely intelligent one and the young knight found his company congenial enough. Their relationship was one of similarities, rather than the attraction of opposites he shared with Imrahil. Whom Thorongil questioned him about one day, after they had ended a bout, and were loitering in the practice yard at the townhouse.

"Princess Finduilas says that you are very close to her brother. What is he like? I have never had the opportunity to meet him."

Andrahar considered the question, while the captain rummaged through his belongings for the pipe and tobacco pouch that never strayed far from his person. He had a clever little spark-striker which he used to kindle the pipe once it was filled, and put it to his lips the moment it was lit, drawing in a mouthful of smoke with obvious enjoyment.

"That cannot be good for your wind," the knight-probationer commented.

"Hasn't slowed me down yet," came the calm reply; then, a gentle prodding--"The Prince?"

Andrahar's answer was slow to come, as he struggled to find the proper words. "Imrahil is….likeable. Most people like him. He is friendly, and knows how to talk to them. He is beautiful as well, which always helps."

"I have heard that they call him Imrahil the Fair. But surely there is more to him than a pretty face?" A slight note of challenge was in the captain's voice.

"There is, though he does not admit it, even to himself. He is reckless and rash, but he has courage and wit and could be a great lord one day."

"You obviously care for him a great deal. You must miss him, for I have seen the way your eye is caught by every tall young man with dark hair who passes by. Are you shield-mates?"

Thorongil used the Haradric term in his question, the one that meant 'more than comrade-in-arms', and Andrahar stared at him for a moment, taken aback. Was the man a mind-reader? "No," he said at last, a bit curtly.

Ecthelion's captain, seeing his consternation, promptly apologized. "I am sorry if I offended you. Such things happen among my folk from time to time, and I had heard that they were not uncommon in the South."

"I am not offended, Captain Thorongil." _Is **he** a lover of men? _Andrahar wondered suddenly. He did not get that sort of feeling from the captain, but there were sufficient cultural differences between them that he might not be reading his fellow foreigner correctly at all. Certainly, there were no rumors of Thorongil being involved with any particular _woman_ at court…_Could he be sounding me out?_

The young knight pondered that possibility for a moment, as well as the prospect of being bedded by the man. Thorongil was comely and masterful and ranked him--there was no question as to who would be the dominant partner, should the invitation be issued. Imrahil aside, did he wish to involve himself in that sort of relationship again?

"I have a friend at home towards whom I feel much as I suspect you do the Prince," the captain was saying. "We can talk about anything. He is as dear to me as my brothers."

Andrahar shook himself out of his contemplative fog, for this was a piece of information about the mysterious captain he suspected few possessed. "You have brothers, captain?"

"Two of them. Older brothers. _Much_ older brothers." Again, the wry twitch of the lips that indicated Thorongil was enjoying some private joke. "But sometimes our brothers of the heart are every bit as close as our blood-brothers. So it is with my friend, and I suspect that you and Imrahil are the same way as well. I hope that he returns to you soon."

"It has been a year, but I do not know what Prince Adrahil intends for him, once his tour at sea is done. We may be parted for some time yet."

The captain took a long draw from his pipe, and cast a casual eye about the courtyard. His eyebrow cocked at something he saw, and he chuckled suddenly. "Perhaps. And perhaps the separation will end sooner than you think. The young prince is a tall fellow, you said, and handsome?"

"Yes, my lord."

Thorongil gestured with his pipe over Andrahar's shoulder. "Does he look anything like that gentleman over there?"

A hubbub was breaking out in the courtyard behind him. Andrahar spun around to see a couple of Swan Knights escorting a tanned young man in seaman's clothes, his sea-bag slung over his shoulder, and his hair, grown longer, tied back in a sailor's tail. He glanced about the courtyard with the relieved look of someone home after a long journey, then his eye fell upon Andrahar. The sea-bag hit the cobbles with a thump, and his face lit up.

"ANDRA!"

"_Imri_…" Andrahar breathed much more quietly, and then he was pelting across the courtyard with absolutely no sense of decorum towards Imrahil, who was also running. They collided with enough force to have knocked the two of them backwards, had they not immediately seized upon each other and commenced pounding each other's back in exuberant celebration. Exclamations of joy filled the air as Swan Knights and hostlers and servants and one bemused Captain of Gondor watched the reunion, grinning.

"Somehow, Hal, I think sparring practice is over," Thorongil remarked to some unseen person, gathering up his equipment to depart unnoticed.


	5. Chapter Five

"You've grown _again_!" Andrahar complained later that evening, flopping down upon the couch in Imrahil's bedchamber. "It would seem there is no justice in Dol Amroth after all."

The young prince, who had unpacked, bathed and enjoyed an evening meal with his sister before retiring to his room, grinned at Andrahar from the bed, where he lounged bare-legged in naught but his shirt and breeches. A cool early autumn breeze blowing through the windows made the room quite pleasant.

"Come now, it is not so bad as all that! Just another inch or so. And who cares if your head fits under my chin anyway? It's rather sweet." One of the sofa pillows was promptly and accurately lobbed into Imrahil's face.

"My head does _not_ come up to your chin! To your nose, yes," Andrahar conceded, "and perhaps a bit beyond. But your chin, no."

Imrahil set the pillow beneath his elbow. "Well, perhaps you'll grow a bit more yourself before all is said and done."

"Possible, but not likely. Neither Mother nor Father were people of great stature."

"Then I shall have to try to restrict _my_ upward progress."

"Just bear in mind that the high ground does not always guarantee the victory."

"It is a victory of sorts. I now have a perfectly good excuse to replenish my wardrobe again."

Andrahar groaned. "_Not_ more endless afternoons at the tailor's shop, Imri!"

"I thought I would go tomorrow. I cannot be seen in the White City looking like a vagabond."

"Surely some of what you have can be altered!"

"Of course. But things look ever so much better if they are made to measure." He flexed an arm and took a deep breath, sticking his chest out with a grin. "And a year of hauling lines has filled me out quite nicely. So it's not just the arms and legs, you see, but the shoulders and chest as well."

Andrahar, who had in fact noticed the way the prince had filled out, and was trying to seem as if he had not, made a noncommittal grunt. Imrahil cocked an eyebrow, and sobered a bit.

"Andra, a year ago, I made you an offer for the wrong reasons, and you were quite rightly offended. I am not seeking to cozen you into anything now, but I will ask you--is there any way I can make that offer again that will not offend you?"

Andrahar's jaw dropped in shock, and he paled to a grey-bronze color. "Why would you wish to?" The question came out in a slightly strangled tone.

"Because you wish to. Because it stands between us, and always will, until we face it. I've been thinking about this a lot lately." Imrahil seemed totally calm and at ease. The knight-probationer took a deep breath and sought to collect himself as well, clenching his hands till the knuckles showed white beneath bronzed skin..

"Imri, I do not know if we should even try. What purpose would it serve? You are the Heir to Dol Amroth, and needs must marry and produce sons. This would only…confuse the issue."

"Would it? I may very well have to make a political marriage, one of convenience. And if that is the case, I will try to deal as fairly with the woman as I can. But am I not entitled to some love as well?"

The Haradrim shook himself, and forced himself to unclench his hands, resting them upon his knees instead. _Kedara and Asinyal_, he thought a bit self-deprecatingly. _The story I have always liked best. But which of us is which? _Aloud, he said, "I do not think that I wish to become your mistress, my lord."

Imrahil snorted. "It would hardly be that, Andra! But I might equally say in my turn that I do not wish you to languish for the rest of your life, pining for the unobtainable. Am I a man for men? I do not think so, but having had no experience at all, it is possible that I could be mistaken. You are my friend. I love you, and I trust you. And I am willing to try this with you, if that is your wish, so that we may see where it might lead us." He rolled off the bed and strode to the door. The sound of the bolt shooting home made Andrahar jump.

"Right _now_?" he asked in a choked voice.

The young prince grinned, that rakehell grin that usually preceeded a night's forbidden adventures. "Unless you had some better idea about how to pass the evening. Did you?" Andrahar shook his head mutely. Imrahil came back to stand beside the bed, and sublimely unselfconscious, shucked his shirt and smalls and breeches, draping them neatly over a bedside chair. He let Andrahar look his fill for a moment, then yanked down the coverlet and hopped up onto the bed. "Off with that uniform, sir!" he commanded, still grinning. "I wish to see how _you've_ filled out!"

Cheeks suddenly flushed, Andrahar began to remove his clothing, cursing inwardly as he did so. The prince's self-assurance and confident command in a situation where Andrahar should rightly have been taking the lead were almost annoying. And at least one part of him had filled out quite swiftly while watching Imrahil strip, which was rather humiliating. But though the Heir could not have helped but notice, he said nothing, merely holding the covers open so that Andrahar could slide in. Once the Haradrim had done so, the young prince slid his arms about him, and pulled him close, till they were resting with their brows touching.

"So, how have you been since I've been gone?" Andrahar pulled back slightly, to stare at Imrahil in astonishment.

"You make me get into bed with you naked, and now you want to _talk_? That's perverse and cruel, Imri!"

"But I've not seen you in the longest time! I promise we'll move onto other things soon." His hands seemed to confirm that promise--they were gently stroking Andrahar's back and shoulders. "You're tense. Relax."

Andrahar was tense because his body was arched slightly away from Imrahil's, so as to avoid pressing his aching member against his friend and frightening him.

"I'm relaxed enough." Imrahil smiled.

"I don't think so." And one of his hands slid down over Andrahar's buttocks, to pull him up snug against the prince's body. The Haradrim groaned as he felt himself pressed against the warmth of Imrahil's belly. The other hand stroked blue-black hair away from Andrahar's face.

"I expected to come back and find you'd won your white belt already. What happened?" The prince seemed unconcerned about Andrahar's state. He was not excited himself yet, though the knight-probationer could feel him starting to stir, and his eyes were beginning to darken to that storm-grey they got when he was aroused.

"Your sister happened!" Andrahar declared, suddenly relaxing in Imrahil's arms and surrendering to the prince's desire to converse. He had just recollected that Imrahil often fell back upon his conversational abilities when he was nervous or out of his depth, and the knowledge that the prince was probably nowhere near as confident as he seemed heartened Andrahar considerably. _I shall chat him up like a woman if I must, if that is what he needs. _He began to stroke the prince's back as well. "She got the idea that she should look after me while you were gone. So instead of winning my white belt in border skirmishes, I've been attending her while she shops and takes tea with her friends, and rides forth with Lord Denethor. For whom I've been an unending source of entertainment, as he speculates on who my contacts in Harad are, and how much information I'm passing to them."

"Lord Denethor thinks you're a spy?" The Heir's back flexed beneath Andrahar's hands. "Oh, right there, if you please. There's a sore spot."

Andrahar rubbed the offending area. "He is certain of it. But he dares not do anything, because he knows I am high in your father's favor, and he does not want to offend Prince Adrahil. It doesn't help that I am teaching Captain Thorongil the Umbarian dialect in the evenings."

"The mysterious Captain Eagle of the Star, huh? What is he like?"

"He was here sparring with me when you came in. Did you not see him?"

"No. I was concentrating on other things." The Haradrim rubbed the back spasm harder, by way of reward. Imrahil grinned, his eyes twinkling. "What is he like?" he asked again. "Should I be jealous?"

Andrahar rolled his own eyes at the inference. "I do not think he is a lover of men, though I thought once that he might be. There is much more to him than he lets on. He claims to come from Rohan, but that's not where he learned his blade work. He is the best I've ever seen with a sword, Imri, and that is the truth."

"Well! That is saying something indeed, coming from you! Is he teaching you some of his tricks?"

"Some. But he will not speak of who taught him swordplay. I find it odd--my people are proud of their swordsmanship schools. An excellent pupil lends credit to his master, and should acknowledge his master publicly. There is a great deal that is strange about that man. Like a mountain in the sea he is--the little peak showing, the rest of it buried below the waves."

Imrahil chuckled at this rare display of poesy from his usually blunt friend, and slid his hand down over Andrahar's hips and buttocks once more, letting it drift with a random quality that was tantalizing in the extreme. Andrahar closed his eyes and groaned softly.

"You are killing me here, Imri!"

"'Tis not my intention, I assure you. But it has been a long time for you, has it not? Unless you've been busy in other ways besides winning your belt since I've been gone." Andrahar shook his head, and the young prince smiled. "No? Then perhaps we should ease this tension of yours, so that you may better concentrate upon matters." And with that, he slipped his wandering hand between the two of them and closed it gently upon the source of Andrahar's discomfort. The knight-probationer jerked, but Imrahil's other arm was snug about his shoulders, preventing escape.

Andrahar had seen those slender, clever hands in action upon many occasions, for though he never intruded upon Imrahil's actual couplings, he'd witnessed the prologues often enough. And he'd often fantasized about how they would feel upon his own flesh. The reality was not a disappointment--the young prince seemed to instinctively know what combination of speed and pressure would be most officious, and in but a few quick strokes brought Andrahar shuddering to his release.

Panting, the Haradrim relaxed and let his head sink onto the pillow. Imrahil dropped a fond kiss onto his brow and rolled out of the bed to fetch a damp towel from the washstand, which he used to clean his friend up. Andrahar protested.

"Imri, 'tis not seemly. Let me do that myself!"

"Hush, 'tis something I want to do for you." Ablutions swiftly completed, he slid back into the bed. "There now, feeling a bit more relaxed?"

"Yes, my lord. Thank you." A bit of worry entered Andrahar's mind then, for despite the amorous nature of Imrahil's attentions to him, the prince was still not aroused, seemingly stalled in a half-way state. "Has it been a long while for you as well?" he asked his friend curiously.

Imrahil chuckled. "What, are you accusing me of playing the cabin boy?" When Andrahar did not answer, the Heir slid his fingers back into the Haradrim's blue-black hair and began smoothing it once more. "The _Asfallin_ only puts into port in Dol Amroth, which I understand was Father's way of leashing me. But to do him credit, he did not cancel my account at the Fairweather, and I used it every time I was ashore. Hit the Drunkard's Dream as well, on the way up the River." That was somewhat reassuring to Andrahar. _Hot-blooded as he is, it may be that Imri has simply become used to going without for a longer time. And he did sate himself on the way here._

"Why are you here?" the knight-probationer inquired aloud.

"Because I heard that you were. And I wanted to see Fin as well, and she's never home any more. Father said I may stay for a time, and train with Uncle Aerandir, though he also says that Uncle has done nothing to deserve me." Andrahar snorted.

"That much is certainly true!"

"I did like my time at sea, though," Imrahil said almost wistfully. "It would be nice to command a ship of my own one day. How do you feel about it?"

"The sea? It's an overlarge, treacherous body of water that's no good for anything. Why?" The Heir's face fell.

"Ah well then, I suppose that getting my white belt will keep me busy enough in any event." Andrahar cocked his heavy eyebrow.

"Imrahil, you asked me how I felt about the sea, not whether I would follow you onto it. If you go to sea, then I will go with you, if that is your wish. I daresay you'll get into just as much trouble there as on land."

The reward for his sacrifice was one of Imrahil's most melting smiles. "Thank you, Andra," he breathed, then rolled over onto his back, spreading his thighs slightly. "Come here." Andrahar moved closer, only to be grasped by the arms and pulled atop his liege. "Are you ready to start now? Here I am. Do with me what you will."

Andrahar looked down at him in confusion, and tried to draw away.

"Imrahil, that would not be seemly! You are the prince, and of greater rank. It is my place to submit to you."

The prince tightened his grasp upon his friend, holding him in place. "Such overweening concern about what is seemly, Andra! You are the one who knows the way of this, so you should be the superior partner. And besides," and here he sobered a bit, "I know that because of your past you do not enjoy submission. 'Tis better done this way."

"I would yield to you willingly, and take pleasure from it!" Andrahar protested, matching actions to words and ceasing his resistance. He relaxed onto Imrahil's chest and dropped his head onto the prince's shoulder.

"I know that," Imrahil murmured in his ear while rubbing his shoulders in gentle circles, "but I do not require it of you. _I_ would feel more comfortable if we did it this way for now. Humor me please, Andra?"

The Haradrim raised his head then, and looked down into the grey eyes alight with affection and trust. _And Captain Thorongil wonders why I love you so…_"If that is your preference, my lord prince," he said, uncharacteristic softness in his deep voice, "then all shall be done as you desire." He bent his head, and pressed his lips gently to Imrahil's, and when the prince let his mouth obligingly fall open so that Andrahar could do as he wished, the knight probationer deepened the kiss.

For a while simple kissing sufficed, for it was a pleasure that Andrahar had never been able to indulge in, other than giving or receiving a brotherly peck upon brow or cheek. Imrahil's mouth tasted of the brandy he'd drunk at dinner, as eyes closed, he reciprocated as best he could. And Imrahil's best, the Haradrim reflected as he experienced it for the first time, was actually very good indeed. When Andrahar finally drew back to take a breath, the young prince opened his eyes and grinned.

"I forgive you for being able to grow a beard."

"Did I scratch you?" the Haradrim asked, concerned. "I shaved this morning."

"That's right, rub it in! No, no scratching. But it does feel different." He closed his eyes once more. "Do go on." Thus encouraged, Andrahar did so, widening his area of exploration. Imrahil, he discovered, had a terribly ticklish spot on the side of his neck, jerking convulsively when Andrahar nibbled it.

"Evil, torturing Southron!" he gasped. Andrahar laughed.

"Evil indeed, and the torture has just begun!" He deftly applied tongue and lips and teeth to the spot till the Heir was squirming and begging for mercy, then began wandering even further, over chest and shoulders, arms and belly. After years of having to alter the instinctive placement of a hand, of abbreviating touches lest his secret be discerned, it was pure delight to be able to handle Imrahil in any way he wished. The Prince had always been beautiful, and his year at sea had only served to improve him. Andrahar, skating hands lightly over taut muscles, licking and tasting and nibbling his way down Imrahil's torso, enjoyed the new bronze color there, though even at his darkest Imrahil was still a little paler than his friend. Fingers bemusedly tracing the line between bronze and the white skin of the Heir's lower belly, the Haradrim was pleased to see the young prince finally becoming aroused. He slid down even further, and was lowering his head when Imrahil raised his, eyes wide.

"Andra, you don't have to…"

Andrahar smiled sweetly, and quoted the prince back to himself. "Hush, 'tis something I want to do for you." And bent his head and took him in.

__

So very different this is when done as an act of love, the knight-probationer reflected. It was an act that Andrahar was particularly skilled at, having discovered early on that sometimes, if he was adept enough with this as a preliminary, he need not do anything further to satisfy a customer. But more often than not it had merely been the prelude to an uncomfortable evening, performed on aching knees in an alley or squalid rented room, hard hands holding him in place, forcing him down into what his society deemed was his rightful place. _Bastard. Slave. Dirt. Whore. Catamite._

And in truth, his hard-won proficiency had served another purpose besides that of survival, garnering for him some small sense of control in a world which held little. For while it would be unwise for him to withhold pleasure, the knowledge that he could if he wished, or alternatively that he could prolong or hasten it, was a comfort.

Now, on lavender-scented linen, with a prince supine beneath him in total submission, that control was unnecessary, and all he felt was a desire to give pleasure and joy to his partner. And a bit of a rueful realization--that a good many of his fantasies about Imrahil had taken this exact form, with himself in the superior role.

__

I called him thoughtless once, but in truth there are times when he knows me better than I do myself! Placing his broad brown hands over the Heir's jutting hipbones, he pressed him down into the mattress and set to work in earnest. Imrahil did not grab him by the head or hair or worse yet, ears, but knotted his fingers into the sheets instead, his body arching like a bow against Andrahar's restraint, his head thrown back.

"Valar, Andra!" he gasped, and followed that exclamation with other appreciative noises as the young knight used every trick in his extensive repertoire to bring him to fulfillment. It did not take very long at all before the prince shuddered and cried out, then relaxed limply. Andrahar let him slip from his mouth with a grin.

"There's brandy in a flask in my wardrobe, should you need it," Imrahil panted after a moment, an arm thrown over his eyes, "and some salve there that might serve as well."

"Salve, is it? And brandy in the wardrobe? You _were _prepared. Though you drink too much, Imri."

The Heir dropped the arm and pushed himself a bit shakily up onto an elbow. "Personally, I don't think the problem is that _I _drink too much, it's that _you _don't drink enough." He watched as Andrahar slid off the bed and sauntered over to the wardrobe, to root carefully through the shelves of neatly folded garments. After some searching, the Haradrim found the flask.

"Buried it back there, did you not? Afraid your sister would think you drank too much as well?" The young prince snorted.

"Afraid the chambermaid would take a tipple, if you must know. Ordinarily, I wouldn't begrudge her, but that's from Great-grandfather's reserve, and it was hard come by!" Andrahar regarded the container with new respect, then resumed looking for the jar of salve, which was more easily found. Tossing the salve to Imrahil, he went in search of cups, found a couple upon the sideboard close to the water pitcher and poured for the both of them.

"Goodness, but we're getting high-class here," the prince commented, as the knight-probationer returned to the bed with his booty. "We could have simply shared the flask, you know."

"Do you want to taste the brandy, or yourself?" Andrahar retorted, and astonished, saw the his liege actually blush a bit in response. He would have thought it impossible for a man of Imrahil's experience to be flustered by such a remark. "We won't go any further with this than you want to, Imri," he added more gently, as he dexterously climbed back up onto the bed without spilling anything and handed the prince his cup. "I would not hurt or frighten you for the world."

Imrahil sat up, took it, and bent his head over the brandy. "No, it's all right, Andra. I started this fully intending to finish it." He looked up at Andrahar from beneath his lashes. "You needn't worry that I don't understand what comes next. I've spent too much time around brothels not to know. And while I was at the Drunkard's Dream, besides my usual evening's entertainment, I hired a couple of gentlemen to give me a demonstration, just in case there was anything I'd missed."

Andrahar's jaw dropped. "_You did WHAT?"_

"I said that I hired a couple of the gentlemen who worked there to give me a demonstration," Imrahil said evenly. "They…performed for me. I watched, and asked some questions, which they readily answered. All in all, it was a very informative evening." Seeing Andrahar's look of disbelief, the prince became slightly defensive. "Surely, Andra, someone with your background realizes that there are people who prefer watching others to participating themselves? I am not one of those people, but I knew that the request would be considered nothing unusual. Which in fact, it was not. The gentlemen in question were happy to oblige, for they are rather attached to each other, and the opportunity to do for profit what they would have been pleased to do for pleasure's sake alone was very much to their taste. They were very obliging. You needn't fear that they were forced into it."

"Just how _obliging_ were they?" the Haradrim asked flatly, his mind awhirl. He was trying to decide if the idea of Imrahil paying two men to make love while he observed them was the most appalling thing he'd ever heard, or the most exciting. Or both.

A grin lighted the young prince's face then. "They did offer, actually. Said I'd paid enough to have the privilege. But I didn't take them up on it. That was not why I was there." He sobered again. "I told you I had been thinking about this for a long time. And I wanted to make sure before I made the offer that I knew exactly what I was getting into, and that I wouldn't back out. That was why I did it."

Andrahar took a careless gulp of the brandy, and nearly choked as the heat of it exploded in his throat. He blinked furiously to clear his watering eyes.

"How…how did you feel while you were watching them?" he managed to ask at last. Imrahil cocked an eyebrow.

"Do you mean did I feel excited? Not particularly. Mostly, I was admiring how limber they were. You know that chapter in _The Garden of Love_? They could actually do some of that without harming themselves! Most impressive, though I fear they set a standard I can never attain." At Andrahar's crestfallen look, he temporized a bit. "They were strangers, Andra. 'Tis not so surprising I would not find them exciting."

"So are your prostitutes, the first time you take them. I can't see that being strangers slows you down much with them."

"Are you going to declare this a failure before we even make the attempt? That is hardly fair--or very much like you! You're usually much more resolute about things. You've pleasured me once already--why are you afraid you will not be able to do so again?" Imrahil quaffed some of his own brandy in a much more competent manner, then reached over to set the cup on the bedside table and fell back upon the pillows once more, grinning up at his friend. Andrahar took another draught of brandy as well, then set his cup beside Imrahil's and joined him.

__

He does make a valid point, the knight-probationer thought, _though mouth-play is a bit different. _Imrahil came willingly into his arms, and they began kissing once more. Then the Heir made a small, protesting noise, and groped beneath himself to draw forth the jar of salve and hand it to Andrahar. "You might need that in a bit," he said with a grin, breaking off their kiss briefly, "and I will certainly find this more enjoyable without it digging into my ribs!" Andrahar laid it behind him, out of their way, and resumed kissing and caressing. Eventually, Imrahil gave him a questioning look.

"How would you like to do this, Andra? Shall I get up on my knees?" Andrahar looked down and found the prince not interested yet, though he himself was more than ready.

"I can wait a bit more if I must."

A rueful smile. "I think you may have done too good a job here. And you've waited long enough already. Perhaps if we proceed with things, I'll rise to the challenge once more." With no further ado, Imrahil rolled over up onto his knees and laid his head upon folded arms. Andrahar sucked in a breath at the sight.

"Very well, my lord prince." He laid a gentle hand upon Imrahil's hip. "I will take as long with this as you need, Imri." A silent nod answered him.

Andrahar knew all too well what it was like to be taken by a partner with no regard for his comfort or safety. And as some of those occasions had occurred when he was little more than a child, it was perhaps pure good fortune that he was even still alive. He was determined that any discomfort Imrahil felt would be both slight and transitory.

Unstopping the jar, he began to ready the Heir for further intimacies, interspersing the preparations with encouraging murmurs and soothing stroking. The young prince held perfectly still throughout, breathing slowly and evenly, and trying to stay relaxed, though Andrahar could see the tension in his shoulders. There was a slight response to the Haradrim's explorations, though it was not all that Andrahar would have hoped for. Eventually, Imrahil was as ready as he could be, and Andrahar laid hands upon his hips.

"Imri, may I?" Another wordless nod. The young knight hesitated a moment longer, then claimed what he had dreamed of all the years he had known Imrahil. The Heir tensed and gasped, but stayed steady beneath him. Fully within the prince, the feeling was every bit as wonderful as he had imagined it would be, and it took all the discipline he possessed not to simply finish things by taking Imrahil with fierce swiftness. But when he reached beneath the two of them and found that what little enthusiasm his friend had begun to display was gone, the knowledge tempered his own desire.

"Imrahil, are you all right?" The prince twisted his head up from the pillow a bit, and opened his eyes to look back at Andrahar.

"I am well, Andra. You may proceed, if you like."

__

Hardly the most romantic of invitations! the Haradrim thought to himself, but leaned over his liege and rubbed Imrahil's shoulders for a moment. "Very well. You need to try to relax more."

"I will do what I can."

But despite his words, he remained tense beneath Andrahar when the knight-probationer began to move. Andrahar was able to temper matters for a while, and spent some time trying to find an angle or speed or level of pressure that would please his friend, but nothing seemed to avail. Finally, it became difficult to hold back, and afraid of hurting Imrahil, he began to withdraw.

"Andra, what are you doing?"

"This is not working for you."

Imrahil spread his legs a little wider and taking a deep breath, pushed back against his friend in an effort to keep him inside.

"I am trying, really I am. We've come this far, you may as well finish. Please, I want you to." Giving in to the plea, Andrahar finally let himself thrust in earnest, and it did not take long before he came to completion with a gasped cry of "Imri!" Sagging heavily upon Imrahil, almost faint with the force of his climax, it took a moment for him to come back to himself and realize that the prince's thighs were shaking. Withdrawing, he moved to the side and lay back upon the bed, drawing Imrahil down to join him. The Heir's face was sweaty and troubled, all his earlier good humor gone, and his black lashes were suspiciously damp. Andrahar was prepared to finish matters with his hand if necessary, but a light touch showed that Imrahil had never again achieved any sort of arousal.

The Haradrim closed his eyes for a moment in an effort to suppress the pain. _It is not as I had hoped, but it is as he said--this stood between us. And now that I know with certainty that it will never be, I need to move beyond it…_

"'Tis a gift beyond price you have given me this night, Imrahil of Dol Amroth," he said aloud in a gentle voice he almost did not recognize as his own, stroking the prince's damp hair away from his eyes, "but I shall not ask it of you again. I have seen you with your ladies, and I have watched you this evening. You are not a man for men. We ventured this to discover whether you were or no, and I have received my answer."

"T'was only the first time, Andra!" Imrahil protested. "With time and practice, I am sure that I would enjoy it more. You pleasured me well enough earlier."

"That was mouth-play, and as you know, mouth-play, no matter who is doing it, would rouse even the dead!" came the dry rejoinder. "I had thought that, because of your attraction to Lord Gildor and Falastir, you might be a man who could perform with both men and women--such do exist, but you are not such a one. By your own admission, you were unmoved by the men you hired. Can you look me in the face and honestly tell me that you have ever been excited by the thought of going to bed with me?"

The prince's grey eyes were dark with misery. "No, Andra," he admitted softly, "though I have always thought you handsome."

"That is not the same thing, and you know it." Imrahil squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, as if he were experiencing something of the same sort of pain that Andrahar was. The Haradrim ventured one last gentle kiss upon his lips. "I thank you for your generosity." Getting up swiftly, before his resolve faltered, he moved to the washbasin to cleanse himself.

"You need not go. I would wish for you to stay here," came the somewhat muffled murmur.

"'Tis better if I do not. You do not need Finduilas writing your father about us. And I have escort duty in the morning in any event. She is going riding with Lord Denethor." He scrubbed himself almost savagely with the cloth, dried off, returned to the chair holding his clothes and commenced dressing, aware the whole time of Imrahil's tragic gaze battened upon him.

"I did not mean to hurt you, Andra," he said with a sad sincerity that could not be doubted.

Briskness, Andrahar had found in the past, could serve at times to hide a breaking heart, and he employed it now. "You did not hurt me," he lied. "We needed to know, so we tried. We failed, but now we have the answer to the question, so in fact, the failure served a purpose. We can move on past this now." Pulling his boots on with swift efficiency, he stood and looked over at Imrahil. "I will see you tomorrow evening, my lord."

Imrahil, who was slowly easing himself under the covers, the night having grown cooler than was comfortable, nodded silently. Andrahar went to the door, opened it a crack, and when he discovered no one in the hall, slipped swiftly out, closing it softly behind him. He made his way to his rooms easily enough, encountering no one, and once within, stripped out of his clothes and cleansed himself once more before seeking his rest. Sated in body, but uneasy in mind, it did not come swiftly.

As for Imrahil, after the door closed, the Prince drained the cup of brandy he'd left upon the bed table, then drank the remnants of Andrahar's, then set to work upon the flask itself. The potency of his great-grandfather's best served to calm him enough that he was able to lapse into a semi-drunken slumber eventually. The setting moon as dawn approached picked out the silver tracks upon his cheeks.


	6. Chapter Six

"Andrahar, did you not get my note?" Princess Finduilas asked in surprise the next morning, when she came to the barn and found the knight-probationer waiting upon her, along with another Swan Knight.

"No, my lady. I was up late last night talking to the Prince, and sought my bed as soon as I returned to my rooms. And I overslept this morning, so I had to rush to get ready. What did you require of me?"

"I had written to tell you that I would take someone else as escort, so that you could spend the day with Imrahil. I assumed that, as he had just returned, the two of you would wish to be together."

"T'was kindly thought, my lady, but not necessary. We spent much time together last night talking, and I suspect that the prince will wish to sleep in this morning. You know how he is--he will be impossibly surly until well after noon. I certainly shan't be wanting to see him again until he is more himself, perhaps not until evening. Thus, I am well able to escort you."

Finduilas gave him a penetrating look, very reminiscent of her father. Andrahar withstood it as well as he could. Then she nodded.

"Very well then. But you and I will be speaking to Uncle Aerandir after today. Now that Imrahil is back, it is time you were reassigned." The Haradrim inclined his head respectfully.

"As my lady wishes." Moving to her horse's side, he cupped his hands so that he might aid her to mount. "If you are ready, princess."

Finduilas gave him one more sharp look, then mounted her mare.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

The sun was well up when Imrahil awoke at last, half-hung over. It took him a few moments to remember what had transpired the night before, but memory was aided by the slight pain he felt when he rolled over.

__

Oh, Valar! I insisted that Andra lay with me last night! I forced him into it, even though I wasn't sure it was what I truly wanted. I failed miserably, and now I've hurt him yet again. The paragon of idiots, that's me! He yanked the servants' bell, and drew the bed curtain partially closed to block the glare. His stomach was sour, and his head almost ached, but he'd gotten off lightly considering the amount of brandy he'd consumed. It had been a good-sized flask….

A chambermaid arrived swiftly in answer to his summons, and he gave her a feeble smile when she opened the door.

"Could I have breakfast, please? Something light--porridge and toast? Then a bath, if you please."

The maid, who was a young girl and not uncomely, simpered a bit at the sight of the unclothed, handsome prince. "Of course, my lord. I'll fetch it right away. Will you require assistance with your bath?"

Imrahil considered the question for a moment. Aside from the fact that his father would have torn strips out of him for consorting with the help, he'd never felt less inclined to have sex, or even the flirtatious prelude to it, in his entire adult life.

"No, mistress," he said at last. "I'll scrub my own back for today at least." Her pretty face fell in disappointment for a moment before she remembered her duty and bobbed him a curtsy.

"Then I'll bring your breakfast right along, sir." She departed, and Imrahil winced as the door shut just a trifle loudly.

When his food arrived sometime later, he found that his stomach was inclined to rebel against even something as innocuous as porridge. But a year at sea had given him some control over the recalcitrant organ, and he forced the meal down. A long soak in a hot bath while he digested breakfast, and the consumption of a cup of willow bark tea effected almost a complete cure. Imrahil had been told by his uncle the previous evening to take a week of leave before he resumed his duties as esquire, so time lay heavily upon his hands. An inquiry to the maid informed him that his sister had not yet returned from her ride, so Andrahar was not available. There was a great need in him to see his friend, to make sure that he had not been harmed by the previous night's adventures, but it looked as if that would not happen until the evening.

__

Andra said that we would work our way past this. But to do so, we need to talk. Silence will only serve to poison our friendship.

He decided to go on to the tailor's shop, as had been his original intention. Despite his gloating humor of the evening before, he had in fact outgrown much of his old clothing. Spending money often helped him to lighten a morose mood, and at least if he went ahead and did the errand now, Andrahar would not have to suffer the boredom of kicking his heels while Imrahil debated the tiny details of dress that mattered so much to him, and that the Haradrim deemed unimportant and incomprehensible.

So the prince dressed and went downstairs to greet his aunt and tell her where he was going, and repeated the process with his uncle out in the yard, blinking a bit as his eyes protested the bright autumn sunlight. Aerandir gestured a couple of men forward to act as an escort, but Imrahil stopped him.

"I'm just going to Colhammad's, Uncle, down in the fifth circle. There's no need for an escort for that. I should be there most of the afternoon." His kinsman smiled.

"You have grown quite a bit this last year. And I suppose it's possible that you could grow a bit more still, so try not to spend all of this year's taxes, Imrahil."

"I shall not give Father any reason to write you a letter, Uncle," the young prince promised. "Besides brotherly devotion, of course. And I promise to be home in time for dinner."

"Very well then. Have a pleasant afternoon, nephew." Aerandir turned back to drilling his esquires, and Imrahil sauntered slowly out of the courtyard, feeling disinclined to make a brisk pace.

Colhammad's, in a stately white building in the fifth circle, was a long-established firm of tailors who had been serving the well-born men of Gondorian society for over four centuries. The front room contained shelves and tables filled with bolts of the most exquisite fabrics that could be found anywhere the ships of Gondor sailed, as well as pattern books and comfortable chairs and tables for the perusal of the books and the selection of fabrics. There were a couple of measuring and fitting rooms, as well as well-lit chambers in the rear in which the actual sewing was done. Business was always conducted in a hushed manner which lent a solemnity to the act of garbing oneself.

Imrahil had been taken to Colhammad's at intervals throughout his childhood for his clothing when he was in Minas Tirith, and once he was old enough that matters had been left in his own hands, he continued to go there. His love of sumptuous apparel was well-known, and he was a popular customer, his arrival creating what was as close to excitement as the shop ever experienced. Nordhan, the master tailor of the establishment, rose to greet him personally as he came in the door. Things looked to be a bit slow, as he was the only customer in the shop when he entered, but that was deceptive. Colhammad's was always busy, and he could hear the murmuring from the tailors working in the back.

"Prince Imrahil! What a pleasure to see you! It's been what, a year? What may Colhammad's do for you today?" The prince gestured towards himself ruefully.

"I grew, Master Nordhan. So I need a re-measure, and a new wardrobe. The usual--smalls, stockings, tunics, breeches, cloaks, the works. And new boots, if you would be so kind as to arrange that." Colhammad's did not do leatherwork, but they had several fine craftsman on contract to supply the needed accessories to go with their garments.

Nordhan was too dignified to drool, but his eyes certainly lit with avaricious pleasure, as Imrahil's request had just guaranteed a mightily profitable week.

"Will you be needing uniforms as well?"

"Yes, esquire uniforms."

"It shall be seen to." He clapped his hands, and a flurry of under-tailors and assistants burst forth from the back rooms.

"The prince requires a new wardrobe!" Nordhan exclaimed. "Fetch him tea and cakes, and the shirting swatches, and set them in the window seat so that he may examine them. He indicated two of his underlings. "You, stand ready to write down what the prince decides. You, fetch him the fabrics when he is ready to look at them. Start with an assortment of the fall and winter suitings, and don't forget the festival fabrics. I will measure him, and we will return shortly."

Imrahil retired with the master tailor to the fitting room, where Nordhan deftly whipped his knotted cord about the young man's body, hardly seeming to touch him at all. He also took tracings of both of Imrahil's feet. When he had done, he noted the results down upon a card which held Imrahil's old measurements.

"You have grown indeed, and broadened through the chest. If you have some of your favorite things which you think can be altered and wish to have it done, send them to us, and we will see to it." Imrahil nodded, and they returned to the front room. "You've come at a good time, my lord. We have just received a shipment of the most beautiful long-staple cottons from Khand. They are very dear, but would make exquisite shirts. There are some lovely woven-pattern ones. A bit light and delicate for heavy winter wear outside, but appropriate year-round otherwise. And excellent as festival wear, the designs being easily augmented with embroidery in white or black or metallic thread."

As Imrahil had hoped would happen, a tickle of interest lifted his malaise a bit. "By all means, Master Nordhan, bring them on." Taking the window seat, he found a cup of tea, a spoon and jar of honey (for Colhammad's knew well how he took his tea) and plate of little iced cakes waiting for him, and settled in for an afternoon of what was one of his favorite pastimes.

Shirts were the things that Imrahil was most particular about, and the part of the clothing selection process that drove Andrahar to distraction. The prince's friend simply could not comprehend the crucial differences between pure Khandian cotton or a cotton/linen blend, or straight linen or silk, or tabby weave or twill. He would watch Imrahil fondle swatch after swatch of white fabric for hours, brow furrowed in concentration, and sooner or later, he would quietly explode.

"They're all _white_! There are seven days in the week! Order yourself seven white shirts and be done with it!"

"But Andra, it is not so simple as all that!" Imrahil would protest. "You can't wear a hunting shirt to tea with the Steward, and a festival shirt won't serve when you have to gut a deer. And the properly chosen woven pattern enhances any tunic. People won't realize _why_ it looks good, they'll just know that it does. Besides, I _need_ more than seven shirts. Honestly…" Whereupon Andrahar would grumble under his breath, lean back in his chair, and endeavor to nap.

Smiling a bit in reminiscence, Imrahil received the Khandian swatches from the second hovering assistant and spread them over the table in the light. They were every bit as exquisite as Nordhan had claimed, and the Heir decided almost immediately that the selection process would be greatly simplified if he just had a shirt made from each of them. That left only the embellishments to go upon each to be chosen, as well as some more utilitarian shirts for hunting and weapons work. Then he could move onto breeches and tunics.

__

I am being ever so efficient today, despite my late start, he reflected as he sipped his tea. _Even Andra might think so! _Requesting the book of embroidery designs from the first young man, he was thoughtfully examining them when the bell upon the door rang. Intent upon choosing the right combination of fabric and embellishment, he did not lift his head, but listened idly to the conversation between Master Nordhan and his other customer.

"What might Colhammad's do for you today, Captain? I don't believe you've graced us with your presence before."

"Take no offence, good tailor, but had the Steward not insisted, I should not be gracing you now," came the response in a quiet voice with an odd accent. "But my lord Ecthelion insists that I appear in something other than a uniform for _metarrë , _and I am informed by those who know that yours is the best establishment to procure festival garments, and that it would be best for me to do so early, if I wished them to be completed in time. So here I am."

"The counsel you received was both wise and accurate. Have you any preference as to color or fabric? Or perhaps any budgetary limitations?" _Nordhan must be impressed with the captain, whoever he is,_ Imrahil thought. That last question had held nothing of his customary disdain towards the less privileged. He looked up, curious, and saw the back of a very tall man with dark, somewhat shaggy hair. An odd tingle ran down his spine, and he began to feel rather odd.

"My preferences tend towards the sober rather than the extravagant. My budget is that of a captain of Gondor with no family to support and few vices. I have some discretionary money to spend, but not on cloth of gold or silk brocade. Does that narrow things sufficiently, master?"

"It gives us a place to start, Captain Thorongil. If you will follow me, I will take your measure, and then we can begin." Master Nordhan moved towards the back room, and the captain turned to follow him. And when Imrahil saw Thorongil's stern but noble visage for the first time, his mind splintered wide open, as it had done when he took the _hekadi_, a chaotic succession of images flashing before his eyes.

__

A line of dark-cloaked men on a dim grey plain, the last one with a star on his brow…Disoriented, Imrahil groped for the table and overset his tea instead. He could hear the assistant's exclamation, but it was dim and distant. _The sun setting in the West, gleaming briefly from beneath a pall of dark cloud…men riding towards Minas Tirith, glimmering in the gloom, while foul dark shadows stooped upon them, and soul-freezing cries echoed in the air…_He started to push to his feet. "My lord prince, are you well?" the assistant asked, the question muffled. _Ships, with black sails, a great fleet of them, sailing up the Anduin…_Awkward because of dizziness, he toppled the chair next. _A rain of fire, and of severed heads…the incessant pounding of drums and chanting of foul voices…_"My lord prince!" _A tide of horsemen in blue and silver, charging across a darkened field…horns, countless horns, echoing in the folds of Mindoullin…_Blind save for the visions, he fell to his knees. _The most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in his life…her hair night-dark and scattered with gems--Elbereth? A grim black gate in a land of slag and ash…_And then onto the floor, clutching his head. _A fire-mountain-Mount Doom?-exploding skyward in a great spume of flame and molten rock…he could feel the ground tremble beneath his feet…_"Master Nordhan! The prince is having a fit!" _Captain Thorongil, clad in the worn garb of a woodsman, leading some children through a forest…A harbor full of ships, with a grey mist drifting towards them…it encompassed them and the screams began…_Dimly heard dithering from the normally imperturbable Nordhan, then the captain's calm voice. "If he _is_ having a fit, then we need to get him clear of all this." Imrahil felt a strong pair of hands upon his shoulders, and the sensation of being dragged a short distance across the floor. _The beacon hills kindling, one after the other…Thorongil again, in mail this time, leading a line of men and horses through what looked to be a dark tunnel…_In the present, the captain was issuing concise orders. "Send a runner up to the townhouse, and have them bring a carriage down here. He can't be carried in a delivery wagon. And close the shop--he will not want others seeing him this way." _Things were happening much faster now, more faces and places flickering by almost too quickly to identify. Some he knew, some were strange to him. Denethor, his father, Dol Amroth, Finduilas, a young lady who looked like Nimrien, Andrahar, Minas Tirith, a young man with grave grey eyes being slapped upon the back by an older young man with a much more cheerful mien, a wood with golden trees…_"He never had a fit before," came Nordhan's protest. Thorongil's voice again. Of all those who had spoken, his voice came the clearest to Imrahil's ears. "I am not sure that it is a fit. I've seen such, with men who had head injuries in battle. I think it is something else. My lord prince, can you hear me?" A warm hand clasped his. _A young Rohirrim with a white horsetail on his helm…a mountain valley full of falling water, and a graceful house in the midst of it…_Imrahil wanted to answer, but could do nothing but feebly squeeze the hand. _Eagles, rank upon rank of them, flying before a north wind…A slender white tree with dark green leaves, crowned with white flowers…_

When the wave finally came, it seemed almost a familiar friend after all the cacophony and confusion. At least he knew what to expect from the wave. It loomed above him, the crest blotting out the sky, and he turned with relief. Time to stop running…He wasn't sure, but he thought he might have cried Andrahar's name as the darkness fell upon him.


	7. Chapter Seven

When Imrahil came back to himself, he was in his own bed in his own room. A lamp burned on the bedside table, and a turn of the head in one direction showed dark outside the window. A similar turn in the other direction revealed Andrahar, who was sitting in a chair at the bedside regarding him sternly.

"I am supposed to inform your uncle and sister when you wake up," he told Imrahil with a frown. "But before I do, I am going to ask you a question. Have you used _hekadi _again since the one time last year?"

"Whatever happened to 'How are you feeling?' or 'Are you all right?' as opening remarks to the recently unconscious?" growled the Heir.

"Those will come later, after you answer the question, my lord prince."

Imrahil glared at him for a moment in affront, then answered. "No! No, I haven't! I finished off the brandy flask last night, that was all. And I've never touched drugs again since the once. That was more than enough for me! Where would I get them anyway?"

"In Dol Amroth, or Pelargir, for that matter. Any port city of that size has them if you know where to look."

"And I take it that you know _exactly_ what's available and _exactly_ where to look, in a city I grew up in and you've only lived in for four years?"

"Of course." A bit of a smug smile tweaked Andrahar's lips, then his demeanor softened considerably. "_Are_ you all right, Imri? What happened?"

Somewhat mollified by the show of concern, however belated, Imrahil answered, "I woke up late, and was a bit hung-over, but I made myself eat breakfast and bathe and get dressed. I wanted to talk to you, but you were still out riding with my sister, so I decided to go to Colhammad's without you, so I could get all of that out of the way, and you wouldn't have to sit through it."

"Thank you for that mercy!"

The young prince ignored the comment. "I was just looking over some shirting swatches when your Captain Thorongil came in. He wanted a suit of clothes for _mettarë . _I took one look at his face, and the next thing I knew, it was like I'd taken the _hekadi _all over again--I was seeing all sorts of things, too quickly to understand them. I fell onto the floor, and could hear him and the tailors, but I couldn't see or speak. The vision went faster and faster and got worse and worse till at last the wave dream came and I lost consciousness. When I woke up, I was here. That's all I remember."

"You say you saw Thorongil, and that he set you off? What does that mean?"

"Yes. And I do not know what it means. Unless your remark about him hiding a great deal beneath the surface is true, and he is important in some way we don't know about." Imrahil struggled up onto his elbows. "But it worries me, Andra. It was not a waking vision as father describes them. Those are not so quick or intense. It was just like when I took the _hekadi._ You don't think it could have….damaged me in some way, do you?"

Andrahar frowned again, but this time it was a concerned frown. "I do not know, Imri. I know more about poisons than about the drugs folk take for…amusement. I have heard that it is possible for a person using _hekadi_ only once to suffer visions years after the fact, but I do not know if that is true or not. We could speak to the healers in the Houses of Healing, and see what they know. You had one here looking at you this afternoon. They were worried you had been poisoned. Or had had some sort of brain-storm. How do you feel now?"

Imrahil sighed. "Tired. Drained. And hungry! It's been a long time since breakfast." He looked up at his friend, brow creased with worry. "Andra, what if this keeps happening? How can I be a sailor or a warrior if I have fits?"

Andrahar crossed his arms and shook his head. "There is no need to worry about that just yet. We don't know that it _will_ keep happening. Did anything like this happen to you aboard the _Asfallin_? What about the wave dream? Did you have that?"

"No, I've had nothing like this until today. As for the wave dream…." he paused for a moment, thinking back, and a look of surprise came over his face. "Do you know, now that you mention it, Andra, I never had the wave dream while on board the _Asfallin_!"

"Not even once?" Andrahar asked, surprised in his turn, dropping his arms and leaning forward. "Imri, hardly the month goes by, two at the most, when you don't have it. Now you are telling me that it did not happen for a _year_?"

Imrahil nodded. "Not even once. I wonder why?" Silence fell over the two young men as they pondered the question. At last Andrahar spoke somewhat hesitantly.

"This may sound…unlikely…but perhaps it was because you were on a _ship_. The only people who survived the foundering of Numenor were on _ships_. Perhaps you felt safe, somehow, deep inside, and that is why you did not have the dream. 'Tis no wonder you liked the sea so much." His expression became glum as he recollected his earlier promise to accompany Imrahil on his maritime adventures.

The young prince gave him an admiring look. "That is actually a rather good theory, Andra. Much better than mine, which is that taking the _hekadi_ did something to my gift, changed it or drained it or blocked it, and then it wore off and that's why I had the very strong vision."

"We simply do not have enough information to make a proper assessment," the Haradrim concluded, leaping to his feet with his usual unquenchable energy, and pacing back and forth a couple of steps. "We will have to give this some time, and see if it happens again, and see what we can find out in the meantime." He looked over at Imrahil. "I need to tell them you're awake now."

"I know." The prince sighed resignedly. "Fin and Aunt Eilinel are going to want to cosset me, I fear."

The knight-probationer did not deny it. "At least you'll be making _them_ feel better," he suggested with a distinct lack of sympathy. "I think Captain Thorongil may still be here as well--I seem to recollect an offer of dinner. It might be useful to see if he causes you to have a fit again. Then at least we'd know to avoid him."

Imrahil winced. "Can you just imagine the scandal if I did go into spasms every time I encountered the good captain? I would have to go back home to Dol Amroth. It would be nearly impossible to avoid the man at court."

"And the Lord Denethor would undoubtedly find a way to blame it on either Captain Thorongil, or myself, or both of us."

"Come now, Andra, do strive for some tolerance! He may very well end up my brother-in-law, if the gossip is any indication. You know the saying--one can't choose one's relatives." Andrahar gave the prince a very flat look that spoke volumes.

"Actually, in Harad, people do choose their relatives from time to time," he declared loftily. "Another way in which my people are wiser than yours."

"How do they do that?" Imrahil asked, interested, but the Haradrim did not deign to explain. He moved to the door, then paused for a moment, obviously taken by an idea.

"Imri, what did you say you were doing when Thorongil came in and your fit began?"

"I was looking at swatches for shirts. They'd just had some new ones come in. Why?"

Andrahar's face was very grave. "It has just occurred to me that perhaps there is another reason for your affliction. Indeed, it explains everything _perfectly_."

"What, Andra?"

Black eyes that were limpid pools of solemnity met the prince's. "You were blinded by the white." There was a flashing grin, and a quick dodge out the door, which closed just as a pillow thudded against it. Imrahil fell back against his other pillows with a groan.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

Having a relatively good opinion of himself, the Heir to Dol Amroth was not a person adverse to coddling in theory. Indeed, he would freely admit that he enjoyed, if not actively sought it out from time to time. But when his entire family in Minas Tirith surrounded his bed and announced their intention to keep him there for the immediate future, he decided that things were being carried a little too far.

"This is beginning to resemble those absurd death-bed scenes in those ridiculous songs the minstrels are always composing at Dol Amroth," he complained to the room at large. His sister tut-tutted, and stroked his hair back from his forehead.

"You did not see yourself when you came home, Imri. The good captain here had to carry you in! And you were so pale! You frightened me half to death!"

"There is nothing _wrong_ with me!" Imrahil declared, in direct contradiction of his own earlier fears.

"How can you say that, my lord prince?" Eilinel asked. "You had a terrible fit!"

"It was nota _fit,_ Aunt Eilinel! It was a vision."

Captain Thorongil, whose presence had thankfully not caused Imrahil to go into spasms again and who had been standing quietly off to the side, spoke. "If I may speak--I have seen a man who suffered from fits due to a head injury he'd taken in battle, and I once knew a boy who had been born with them. This was not the same. Prince Imrahil could hear me when I spoke to him, and responded before he lost consciousness. Such was not the case with the other people I knew who had fits."

Finduilas shook her head, unconvinced. "'Tis kind of you, Captain, but Father's foresight does not pitch him onto the floor unconscious. I wonder, Imri, if this may not be a remnant of your little misadventure of last summer." Chilled by his sister's reaching the same conclusion he had, Imrahil looked about the room for a moment. Aerandir, who was obviously in the know, looked grim, while Eilinel was plainly baffled. Andrahar's expression was unreadable, but there was the faintest hint of curiosity upon Captain Thorongil's face, though he was obviously trying to suppress it. Somehow, Imrahil knew that curiosity was not pure prurience, but merely a desire for more and better information. And as he also had the strong feeling that the captain could be trusted, he answered it.

"I took some _hekadi_ last summer, Captain," he told Thorongil. "On a dare, more or less. There was something wrong with it--it killed the man who had given it to me. And I had an experience much like today's, save that it was far worse."

Aerandir bent his head to softly explain to his wife the significance of this, while Thorongil's face grew grave. "That was…unfortunate, my lord prince."

"Foolish, don't you mean?"

The captain's mouth twitched. "That too," he conceded.

"My family are dreamers, captain. They dream things that sometimes come true, and sometimes they have waking visions as well. So the question we're debating is--was what happened today a result of my gift or the _hekadi_?"

"Well, whichever it is, it obviously exhausted you, Imrahil," his sister said sternly before Thorongil could answer. "You've still got no color to you. I am going to write Mother and Father tonight, and I think you should rest for several days, perhaps as much as a week. And I don't know that it's a good idea for you to resume esquire training just yet. You should be watched for a while, to see if it happens again."

"_Don't _tell Mother and Father, Fin! They'll just be worried sick, and come to Minas Tirith early instead of waiting for Council season. I'll be all right."

"Your sister is correct, nephew," Aerandir said firmly. "Whether you like it or not, you are your father's only son and heir, and anything that concerns your health is of direct concern to him. I shall be including my observations as well."

Outflanked and outnumbered, Imrahil made a partial tactical withdrawal. "Very well then--just try not to scare them to death, please? But as for me staying in bed for a week--it's really not necessary! All it will do is make it that much harder for me to take up my training when the time comes."

"Perhaps a day or two in bed, then some carefully supervised exercise?" Thorongil suggested diffidently. "I wouldn't think it wise that he ride or climb or swim for a bit, but I don't see how he would come to harm sparring with experienced partners. Certainly not in the esquire class-perhaps some private lessons with competent individuals. Any of your knights would serve, and young Andrahar is most capable. He also knows the prince's ways best, and would most likely be able to discern if he was having difficulty again. That way, the prince would be able to proceed at a pace that was not taxing to his health, but he would also not loose ground as a swordsman."

Aerandir nodded. "That sounds good to me. What do you think, Finduilas?"

The Princess frowned, reluctance plain upon her face. "Very well then. Though I still think he needs to rest longer."

"It would be easy enough to put him back in bed, should the exercise prove to be too much for him," Thorongil said in a reasonable tone. Imrahil had no idea what had made the man take up his cause, but he wasn't objecting. Finduilas nodded capitulation after a little more inner debate; despite the fact that Thorongil was a captain and not a healer, he exuded an air of quiet competence that made one think that what he said had to be so. The young prince was grateful for that as well.

"Two days, Imrahil, then we'll let you get up and try some things and see what happens."

"Thank you, Fin," the Heir said sincerely, figuring it best to quit while he was ahead. His sister was eyeing him with a frighteningly maternal gleam in her eye.

"And now, brother, how are you feeling? Can I get you anything?"

"Some dinner would be nice," he suggested plaintively. "I had a light breakfast, and nothing since then. I'm starved!"

"If his appetite's intact, there cannot be too much wrong with him!" Aerandir declared heartily, though whether he actually believed that or was just saying it to reassure his troubled wife was anyone's guess. Patting Imrahil gently on the shoulder, he took Eilinel's arm and ushered her from the room. "Come my lady," came his fading voice, "let us find some food for the poor starving fellow."

Kissing her brother on the brow, Finduilas rose as well. "I'll go help Aunt Eilinel see to your supper, Imri." She gave Captain Thorongil a grateful smile. "Thank you again, captain, for your care of my brother. It was very kind of you."

The mysterious captain inclined his head. "It was my pleasure, lady. I am glad that he seems to have come to no lasting harm. I would like to check upon his progress over the next few days, if you would permit it. And please know that if there is anything I can do to aid you, you have only to call upon me."

"You are welcome in our house at any time, Captain Thorongil. We keep a good table, and I would imagine that a bachelor captain finds it difficult to provision himself, so please consider yourself to have a standing invitation for dinner."

"That, my lady, is very kind of _you_!"

Finduilas bestowed upon him a warm and appreciative glance and moved to the door. "It is the very least I can do. I'll leave you gentlemen alone now."

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

When she had gone, Imrahil gave the captain a speculative look. "She has a dowry you would not believe, captain."

Thorongil, taken a bit aback, laughed, his face lightening in that way that Andrahar had noted before. Imrahil was surprised by how it changed him as well.

"Of that I have no doubt, my lord prince! As I also have no doubt that your father, just and fair-minded man that he is, would nonetheless prefer Denethor son of Ecthelion as a son-in-law to a wandering sell-sword!"

"Well, I am neither just nor fair-minded, and I am not overmuch pleased with the prospect of Lord Denethor as a brother-in-law! He's too old for Fin for one thing. And entirely too gloomy. And he thinks everyone he doesn't like is a spy."

"I too had noted that tendency of Lord Denethor's." Thorongil went absolutely straight-faced for an instant, and Andrahar muffled a snort of laughter at his expression. "But I should warn you, Prince Imrahil, that though I may appear remarkably well-preserved," this being said with a twinkling eye, "I am not any younger than Lord Denethor, so your objection to him would have to apply to me as well."

"But you are not as gloomy. And you don't think Andra is a spy."

"Oh, I have my gloomy moments. But it is true that I know without a doubt where Andrahar's loyalty is given." He moved closer to the bed and folded Imrahil's hand into his briefly. "I hope that you will feel better soon, my lord prince. Perhaps when you are more yourself, we might spar together a bit."

"I should like that very much," the young prince replied. "Andra has said that you are the most excellent swordsman he's ever seen. I am sure that I would learn a great deal."

"Andrahar is overly kind, but when you have recovered, we will put that to the test."

"Indeed, I am not adverse to a little rest, though I'll thank you not to say that to my sister!" Imrahil admitted. "It was most of it so frightening and depressing! Fire and death and battle." He cocked an eyebrow at Thorongil. "You were there, you know. A couple of times."

"Was I now? Perhaps that is not so unlikely. Your vision had battle in it and I am a captain after all. But I am sorry to have caused you grief, even in a vision."

"Oh, it wasn't _all_ horrible," Imrahil hastened to reassure him. "There were a couple of beautiful things. This woman, for one. I thought she might be Elbereth. The most beautiful woman I'd ever seen, with hair like the night with stars in it. And a tree, a little white one, blooming. I think it might have been a White Tree."

Andrahar, watching the captain closely, saw no outward change in his expression. But something in his eyes shifted in a way that told the Haradrim his liege's vision had some meaning to the man. However, Thorongil's voice was level enough when he said in a gentle tone, "I am glad to hear that it was not all horrible."

"No. But I shall be years sorting it all out, I fear. Unless it keeps happening…." the prince's face fell at that prospect, and the captain gave him an encouraging smile.

"I should not worry about that just yet. It may never happen again. In any event, you should endeavor to stay calm and not fret about it unduly, lest your very unease bring it upon you once more."

"Saying something like that is almost guaranteed to make me worry about it, captain!" Imrahil chided. Thorongil bowed.

"That is true. Forgive me, I am sometimes clumsy in sickrooms. I will take my leave now, that you might take your rest. Good night, my lord prince."

"Good night, captain." The odd feeling swept over Imrahil again, as he watched Thorongil go out the door, but it was not accompanied with any visions, other than a distinct feeling the man should be wearing a star upon his brow…He shivered a little, then turned to find Andrahar looking at him with concern.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes." The prince nodded almost too strongly, as if he were trying to convince himself, and as if the motion had jogged something loose, a name popped into his mind, a name whose meaning or significance escaped him utterly. _Aragorn._

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

The chambermaid brought up Imrahil's supper shortly after the captain's departure. Andrahar, who had eaten his own supper while keeping vigil over Imrahil, kept him company with a tankard of ale. The two friends said little as the prince wolfed his food with the appetite of a healthy young man; but when he had done and set his tray aside, Imrahil asked, "Are you all right, Andra?"

Andrahar took a drink of his ale, his eyebrows raised. "Why should I not be?"

"Because of last night!" the Heir exclaimed, baffled by the Haradrim's nonchalance, and uncertain as to whether he should be reassured or worried by it. He had been surprised upon his awakening, that Andrahar had been so easy with him. Grateful, but surprised.

Imrahil's friend and one-time lover nestled his tankard between his two hands. "I will admit I was upset last night, and it was quite a while before I was able to sleep. But I had little time to think about it again until this afternoon. I accompanied your sister this morning while she rode, and later when she had lunch over at the Citadel. When we returned, we found that the carriage had been sent after you. Captain Thorongil brought you in shortly after that. At that point, I became afraid that you might have had the fit because you were distraught about what we had done last night."

"Or because I had been taking _hekadi_ again behind your back!" Imrahil complained. "As if I could have been doing that while doing duty as a seaman! Captain Erengar ran a tight ship."

"I thought you might have acquired some upon your trip up from Dol Amroth. But when you said you hadn't, and you did not seem angry with me about our time together, I was very relieved."

"For my part, I was relieved as well. I was afraid that we would not be able to talk to one another, and I was surprised that you were so comfortable with me-even if it meant I had to suffer your wretched sense of humor." The Haradrim snickered. "I thought that you might hate me for forcing you to do that, and then failing as I did."

Andrahar gaped at him in disbelief. "_Hate you_? Why would I hate you for that?" He drained his tankard quickly, got to his feet and began to pace about the room. "In the first place, you did not _force _me to do anything! In the second-you must understand, Imrahil, I _do_ know that I am not a _normal_ man! It is nature's way for men to want to cleave unto women and produce children. I do not know why I have never looked upon a woman with desire-if my childhood is to blame, or if I was born that way. And many times I have wished that however it happened, I were not made so, for it has made a difficult life no easier. But it is the way I am, and I cannot deny it, and it would be a grave mistake for me to try to pretend otherwise. Can you imagine the life of the poor woman shackled to me in marriage?" Imrahil shook his head, appalled at the very thought.

Gesturing a little abruptly with the empty tankard, the knight-probationer continued. "My people are more understanding of this vice, or perversion, or difference…whatever you want to call it. Perhaps the Khandians have corrupted us. Did you know that there is a sect of Khandians whose members do not sleep with their wives unless they wish to procreate? They feel it diminishes their masculinity." A short, unhappy laugh. "Amusing is it not? That they feel exactly the opposite of how most people feel about love between men? They sleep with boys instead. And you know how I know that." Imrahil nodded, remembering some of Andrahar's more hair-raising tales. "When you brought me to Gondor, and I began to understand how your folk regarded what I am, I despaired. And I was terrified to tell you, afraid that you might cast me out."

He stopped pacing, and let the hand with the tankard fall to his side. "But when I did reveal what I was, wonder of wonders, you not only did _not _cast me out to fend for myself in a hostile country, you simply accepted me."

"You can thank those Elves you dislike so much for that," said Imrahil with a small smile. "I had a very informative talk with Gildor once, not long before I met you."

Andrahar rolled his eyes. "Then much as I hate to admit it, I am grateful to them. Imri, I will own that there have been parts of the last several years that were less than enjoyable, particularly the year before last,"-- Imrahil grimaced guiltily at that--"but there were also parts that were very good, and you never despised me because I was a man-lover. That was a very great gift you gave me." He moved closer to the bed, still he was standing right beside it.

"And not one man in one hundred thousand would have given me the gift you gave last night! T'was my fault as much as yours, for allowing you to go through with it as far as you did. But I do think you were right--we needed to find out once and for all." His dark gaze was very earnest. "I will not deny that I regret that we did not succeed. I will regret that all of my life. But now I _know. _ And I would rather know than spend the rest of my life wondering 'What if?'."

"I wish it had been better too, Andra. I told you then, and I will tell you now, that I am willing to try again."

Andrahar shook his head vehemently. "But I am not! There is no future in it, Imri. Had you truly been a man for men, I might have been willing to continue to try, but you are not, and I will not have you jeopardize your position as Heir for an affair that is conducted out of a sense of duty rather than real passion. 'Tis better for you this way in any event-you will marry your wife and sire your children as you ought." He paused to contemplate something for a moment, then smiled his wolfish grin. "And as I will most likely never have any children of my own, I will have to settle for undermining your authority with yours."

"Thank you ever so much!" Imrahil groaned, then sobered. "Are you sure that you are all right?"

"I am sure." The reply came quick and firm. "Yes, it hurt, and I will not pretend that it did not. But I did a good part of that to myself, mooning after you for so long when I had ample proof before me that you preferred women. All you did was try to fulfill my wish for me. You have your father's generous spirit, Imrahil. I would be proud to spend the rest of my life serving you."

"I would rather you were my friend, Andra, not my servant."

"I can be your friend, but I still have to make a living!"

"Ever the practical one! Well, one of us should be." The prince reached up and clasped his friend's forearm. His own was squeezed in return. A bit tentatively, Imrahil then strengthened his grasp, drawing Andrahar down into his reach so that he could embrace him. There was a moment's hesitation, a slight stiffness, before the Haradrim relaxed and permitted the familiarity, but he seemed comfortable enough after that.

"I will be abed, or perhaps on the couch in the library, for the next two days," the Heir said into his ear. "There is no need for you to bear me company there--I know that it would bore you immensely. So by all means, if there is something more active you would rather be doing, please go ahead and do it. And if it turns out that my career as a warrior is over before it was truly begun, I shan't ask you to dance attendance upon me, Andra."

Andrahar snorted. "If such turns out to be the case, though I doubt it will, then you will need me more than ever, my lord prince. And I will stay with you."

The prince's arms tightened about him then in a fierce squeeze. "Thank you!"

The Haradrim pulled away gently after they released him. "You are welcome! Now get some sleep. No matter what else I do tomorrow, I will sup with you tomorrow night."

Imrahil nodded, and closed his eyes. "I will look forward to it. Good night, Andra."

Andrahar looked down at his liege; still slightly wan, his face relaxed and vulnerable, his black hair straying untidily over the pillow in a most appealing way. The picture was stirring enough that the young knight had to give his heart and other parts a quick, stern talking-to. Aloud, he merely said, "Good night, Imri." And blew out the lamp, and shut the door quietly behind him when he went.


	8. Chapter Eight

By dint of much persuasiveness and just a touch of petulant pouting, Imrahil convinced his sister to allow him run of the library the next day, where he was enthroned upon a couch well-cushioned with extra pillows, a rug tucked around his legs, a tray with the sort of light comestibles thought to appeal to a convalescent at his elbow, and a bell upon the tray should the arrangements prove lacking in any respect.

Andrahar was at arms practice, and the prince was not adverse to a quiet morning, for he had a couple of projects he wanted to do some research on. The first was Andrahar's cryptic reference to Haradrim adoption, if that was indeed what he was talking about; the second was that name that had come to him the day before. Was it the name of a place, or a person? Or was it even a name at all? Was he simply going mad? These were questions that he very much wanted answers for.

Of course, the library in the townhouse was nowhere near as extensive as the City Archives, or even the library in Dol Amroth, which was the largest in western Gondor. But the Princes did love their books, and the collection was both eclectic and much larger than most noble houses in Minas Tirith could claim. It would certainly serve as a starting point, and he might even get lucky and find the information that he sought. If not, then after his sister's imposed period of convalescence, he could always go to the City Archives to unearth his answers.

Imrahil was keen-minded, and scholarly matters had always come easily to him-certainly he'd had no trouble in keeping up with his studies as a esquire while helping Andrahar do so at the same time. But it had been a while since he'd been required to do any heavy research. Upon the _Asfallin_, his studies had been confined to the mathematics of navigation, so he was a bit out of practice in the ways of teasing information from a library. By lunch time, the floor beside the couch was piled with books, he was no closer to either of his desired answers than he'd been in the morning, and he was getting a headache. So he broke away from the research to eat lunch, and when that did not help his headache as he had hoped, he sent for some willow bark tea, drank it and then tried to take a nap.

Sleep did come to him eventually, but it was disturbed and uneasy. He woke abruptly, with the feeling that he was being watched. Looking up, he met the chill regard of the Captain-General of Gondor, who was standing over his couch. Gasping in surprise, he started to sit up, only to be halted by an upraised hand.

"Please do not rise, Prince Imrahil! I apologize for disturbing you. Your sister was kind enough to invite me for lunch. My father asked me to send his condolences over your recent indisposition, and wanted to know if there was anything we could do to help. I came in here to relay his message, but had I known that you were asleep, I would not have done so."

The Heir rubbed his eyes. "No apologies are necessary, Lord Denethor. It is just as well that you did wake me, for I do not wish to remain sleepless tonight."

"You are kind to say so. But come, is there anything we can do for you? From what Lady Finduilas says, the experience must have been a very disconcerting one."

The young prince shook his head. "The best advice anyone can give me right now, my lord, is to rest. Only time will tell if it is an ongoing problem."

Lord Denethor seated himself in the chair nearest the couch with the assurance of one who had the right to do so without asking leave.

"I understand that Captain Thorongil was there when your…episode happened, and that he brought you home."

Wariness brought Imrahil fully awake, though he endeavored to seem relaxed.

"So they tell me," he replied behind his hand, as he yawned. "I was not awake when he brought me home. I did see him at Colhammad's."

"It seems strange that his presence should cause you to have a vision."

His alarm increasing by the moment, the young prince made himself shrug. Lifting the cup of cider from his tray, he took a sip. Eyes lowered over the cup, he said, "I do not know that it _was_ the captain who 'made' me have the vision, my lord." Chuckling quietly, he raised his head to look the Steward's Heir square in the eye. "Andra's theory is that it was brought on by my becoming overwrought over the selection of the proper material for new shirts. He thinks I worry over much about such things."

__

Odd, Imrahil reflected, as Lord Denethor's face darkened slightly at the mention of Andrahar, _how the dropping of a name seems to bring the person named to you in spirit at least._ He felt stronger, more confident of a sudden, as if Andrahar were actually there at his back, lending him support.

"I suppose that it is unreasonable to assign blame to Thorongil in this matter," Denethor conceded. "It was good of him to take such care of you."

"Indeed it was," Imrahil agreed, setting the cup back down and repressing the urge to suggest that Finduilas had found the captain's actions admirable. He was trying to keep the man _out_ of trouble after all, even if he wasn't sure exactly what sort of trouble it _was_…."He has offered to give me lessons in swordplay when I am well."

"You will surely find such lessons…beneficial. Thorongil is a wizard with a blade," the Captain-General said.

"So Andra says as well."

A slight frown at the second mention of Andrahar's name. "Did the captain make an appearance in your visions?"

"Everyone that I know did, to the best of my recollection, my lord," Imrahil replied easily. "You must understand that they were only quick flashes, gone almost before I could identify them."

Denethor's gaze sharpened. "Everyone you _know_, you say, my lord prince? You'd never even seen Thorongil until that moment, had you?"

The Heir blinked, taken aback. "Why no, my lord. But I remember him in the vision, perhaps because I'd just met him. It was nothing extraordinary-a brief glimpse of him in armor, leading some men on horseback like a captain ought." A carefully casual shrug. "I don't see how it signifies anything important."

Lord Denethor settled back into his chair more comfortably. He seemed inclined to stay a while. This dismayed Imrahil, who had hoped the man would tire of questioning him and depart to court his sister some more. "Perhaps you are right, and it does not," the Steward's Heir agreed. "Perhaps none of it does. Yet I would think that you might want to strive to remember some of what you saw, if only to understand it more fully and give yourself some peace of mind."

"I was advised not to do so, sir," the prince replied honestly, omitting the fact that the advice had come from Thorongil. _Though I do have to wonder why I feel compelled to protect the man! _he thought wryly to himself. _'Tis a strange thing to favor a first-met stranger over the Heir to the Stewardship, a man I've known almost my whole life!_ _And for that matter, why **did** Thorongil try to discourage me from remembering? _"I have been told that if I do not dwell upon it, it will be less likely to happen again. And I very much do not want it to keep happening!"

"Yes, I can see where it would curtail a warrior's career. But your father rules well enough without the white belt--he is greatly respected. And does he not possess your family's gift?"

"This may not _be_ my family's gift, my lord, just a relic of something foolish that I did last summer." Imrahil cast his eyes down in an embarrassment that was not entirely unfeigned. "Has my sister spoken of it to you?"

Lord Denethor steepled his fingers together. "Lady Finduilas did mention some trouble you'd gotten into last summer. She said it was why you had been sent to sea for a time. But she did not speak of the specifics. As I recollect, shortly after that, my father received a complaint about a couple of young high-bloods being sent down from the Swan Knights. His response was, of course, that it was Prince Adrahil's right to oversee his Swan Knights as he saw best, and that the Steward had no authority to override his decisions upon such matters. I had wondered if there was a connection."

"There was. I will not go into detail other than to say that my indisposition may not be true prophecy, but rather the aftereffects of a dose of tainted _hekadi_ I took last summer."

The Captain-General's eyebrow arched. "Did your young Southron knight have anything to do with that?"

Imrahil sat up, eyes flashing. "No, my lord, other than to save me when I near perished from taking it! Think you he would still be here, much less a Swan Knight, if he'd aided me in acquiring it?" Throwing the lap rug aside, he got to his feet, careful of the piles of books. "May I speak plainly, my lord?"

"You may," Lord Denethor said.

"You have made no secret of your dislike and distrust of Andrahar, either to me or to him. But he has my trust, and my sister's trust, and more importantly, my mother's and my father's. In fact, last year, when Andrahar wished to leave the Swan Knights because those high-bloods you speak of ambushed, bound and beat him half to death, Father went to a great deal of trouble to persuade him to stay." Feeling the need to put some distance between himself and Denethor of a sudden, Imrahil padded over to the nearest wall of bookshelves in his stocking feet, and leaned his back against them. His head was starting to hurt again.

"If you wish to become a part of our family, you are simply going to have to accept the fact that Andrahar is a member of our household. You'll get a lot further with Fin, and certainly much further with Father and myself if you do."

Lord Denethor received this declaration calmly. "I appreciate your candor, young Imrahil," he said when the young prince was done. "May I speak plainly as well?" Imrahil nodded, careful of his aching head. "Has it never seemed an…odd…coincidence that on your one trip to Umbar you should encounter a youth of similar age and interests to you, in a situation that was sure to guarantee your sympathy for him? Has it never occurred to you that the Haradrim would love to have a spy close to the royal family of Dol Amroth? Your family leads western Gondor, 'tis your navies that keep Gondor safe from the Corsairs. And for the last four years there has been a Haradrim ear in the heart of your councils, and a Haradrim tongue influencing them. I am sure the Lord of Umbar is overjoyed."

"I rather doubt the Lord of Umbar even knows," the young prince retorted. "I did not take the route back to my ship that I was supposed to that day. It was a whim of the moment that brought me to the market where I found Andra. Any planted spy would have been upon my original route. And there is one other flaw in your theory, my lord. As well as your logic."

"And that would be?" the Captain-General asked gently.

"You obviously believe that my house has the gift of foresight, or you would not have been pressing me as you have just now to reveal the content of my visions to you. If you believe me foresighted, and my father as well, then how can you claim that Andrahar is a spy? He wanted to leave last year, and Father did his best to keep him with us. Which means one of three things--that Andrahar is not a spy, and Father deems it best for our house if he remains with us; that Andrahar is a spy, and Father is knowingly using him to feed disinformation to the enemy; or that Father is a treasonous tool of the Haradrim himself-in which case you have much more to worry about than one Southron knight-probationer! I know which of those three possibilities I believe."

"An interesting argument, young prince. Your loyalty does your credit," Lord Denethor said with a smile. He made no comment upon the validity of said argument, not that Imrahil cared. The prince suddenly realized to his horror, that along with the headache, he was experiencing the same odd feeling he had the day before, right before Thorongil turned around.

__

No! Not now! Not in front of him!

"Prince Imrahil?"

Had he spoken aloud? He wasn't sure. Imrahil looked to the couch--two steps away, it might as well have been a mile. The white was already beginning to gather.

"Call my sister!"

Denethor, looking worried, got to his feet, but did not move towards the door. "Perhaps you should lie down first…You look very pale of a sudden." He started around the couch at the same time Imrahil went for it. One long stride, and the young prince's knees buckled as they had the last time. He fell awkwardly against the back, his jaw cracking against the carved wooden frame at the top, his teeth sinking into his lip. The pain in his lip and jaw drove the vision back for a brief, precious moment, and he clutched the back of the couch and gasped, "Please! Just get help, my lord!"

The Captain-General started towards him once more, then paused, as indecisive as Imrahil had ever seen him, then finally started for the door, but it opened before he reached it, and Andrahar stepped into the room. One look at the scene before him, and the pleasant expression upon his face changed instantly to rage.

"_What have you done to him?_"

"Nothing! We were but talking, and he began to feel ill, and fell. He asks for his sister."

"_Then get her!_" the former slave snarled at the Steward's Heir of Gondor. Lord Denethor ran out the door. Andrahar did not do anything so prosaic as run around the couch--he ran two strides, and vaulted it to land beside his friend.

"Imri? Can you hear me? I'm here. I have you."

Imrahil, making his inevitable surrender to the storm of images, was glad to feel the Haradrim's strong arms close around him and pull him close, anchoring him. His face was pressed against Andrahar's freshly-laundered tabard, and part of him worried about bleeding upon it, but only a small part. The rest of him listened to Andrahar's deep voice rising and falling in a soothing litany of encouragement, and watched the chaotic flow of light and color before his eyes. He waited impatiently for it all to be over, for the wave to arrive, but it never came. This time, things ended in fire and a blaze of light.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

"Mother?" The voice was drowsily querulous.

"No, Imri, it's Fin."

"Oh." A long pause. "What time is it?"

"Second bell rang some time ago."

Another pause. "Should be in bed."

"Me? Someone needed to look after you, baby brother."

"Andra?"

"On the couch right over there. He has to get up and fight in a few hours, so I made him get some sleep. Would you like a drink?"

"Please." Finduilas poured a cup of water for her brother, and lifted his head so that he could drink. When he had done, she settled him back onto his pillows and gently brushed the hair back from his brow.

"How does your head feel now?"

"Empty." Her mouth quirked a bit, and Imrahil lifted a cautionary finger from the coverlet. "Don't start." The princess chuckled. Though the lamp was turned low, she could see a bit of her brother's usual mischief in his eyes, and it went far towards easing the worry she'd been suffering all afternoon and evening.

"We had the healers here, Imri. They were wanting to move you to the Houses of Healing so that they could observe you."

Imrahil's eyes widened. He seemed much more awake of a sudden. "I don't want to go there, Fin! Please let me stay here!"

"Gracious! You sound as if you were six again! Just because you had such a bad time there when you broke your arm as a boy, is no reason not to go there now."

"But they have none of the comforts of home there! Their bed linens are scratchy! And besides, what's the good of being a prince if you can't make people dance attendance on you where _you_ want to be?"

"Petulant pup! I've never seen such arrogance!" Finduilas' smile moderated the harshness of her words.

"Speaking of arrogance, where's that wizened old suitor of yours?"

"_Imrahil_! I will thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head when you speak of Lord Denethor! His interest in me aside, he is the Steward's Heir of Gondor, and therefore due your respect."

"He's too old for you."

The Princess of Dol Amroth cocked her elegant eyebrow. "Hmmmmm, judging from the way you play about, you'll be every bit as old as he or older before you marry. I hope I live to see the day you fall for some little sprig half your age-I'll never let you live it down!"

Imrahil ignored the threat. "Is he still here? Did you put him up for the night? Oh, the scandal!" A hand was theatrically pressed to the prince's pale brow.

"Stop it, you wretch! If you must know, he did stay quite late, until we were reasonably sure that you were going to be all right. He was very concerned about you."

"Awfully good of him, since he was the one who put me in this state."

Finduilas frowned. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

"I mean that I was napping in the library, and when I woke up, I found Lord Denethor looming over me like the kings in the Argonath. Sits himself down, gives the Steward's regards and best wishes for my continued health, and then starts in about my visions, and how I should try to remember them, and did Thorongil make them happen, and had I seen him in the vision, and if so, what was he doing? Then he goes on to talk about how Andra is a Haradrim spy who was intentionally planted on me when I went to Umbar. About that time, I fell over."

"I am sure he did not mean you any harm, Imri. You did not see him when he came to find me. He was most upset!"

"He just didn't want you to know he'd caused the attack."

"I do not think he did cause it, Imri."

"He badgered me while I was sick, Fin!"

"I am sure that he was merely trying to find out if there was something he could do to help you! Can you give the man no credit? He picked up all those books you'd left all over the floor, and sorted them out for you on the table while we were waiting for the healers to finish. He even made sure that all the little place markers were still in the right places."

"Nosing about," Imrahil suggested darkly. "He was curious to see if I were looking up anything about my visions." His sister gave him an irritated look.

"You are ill, and ill-humored with it, so I will make allowances. But I weary of your continual complaints about Denethor, Imri. You know next to nothing of the man, he is not as you would paint him, and I like him very much. So you had best find some way to come to an accommodation with him. Because he may become a member of the family very soon."

The Heir closed his eyes for a moment, and sighed wearily. "I am sorry, Fin. You are right, I do not feel well. And you are tired and cross from having to stay up with me. You should go on to bed. I swear to you I have no intention of perishing before dawn."

"That is not amusing, little brother."

"Go on, Fin. Andra is here. I will wake him if I begin to feel bad. I know how it feels now before it starts--I will have a minute or two of warning."

"Really? That could be useful."

"Indeed." He tipped his head up, inviting a kiss, and Finduilas obligingly pecked him on the cheek.

"Are you sure that you will be all right?"

"I am sure! Good night." He watched as his sister went reluctantly out the door, closing it softly behind her, then turned his head to meet the black eyes watching him from the couch. Andrahar had been awake for some time. "So, _are_ you a Haradrim plant?"

"Of course," came the matter-of-fact reply, after an impressive yawn. "I was sent to encourage Lord Denethor in his courtship of your sister, since it is believed that he is probably too old to sire children. You I was supposed to seduce and turn into a lover of men, so that you would not have sons either. Thus would the downfall of the royal house of Dol Amroth be accomplished, without any sort of costly warfare whatsoever."

"Truly?" Imrahil grinned. "I must say, your 'encouragement' of Lord Denethor is the oddest I've ever seen."

A disgruntled snort issued forth from the Haradrim and he rolled over to return to sleep, after checking and re-adjusting the location of his weapons appropriately. "That is because you have no appreciation for subtlety. Get some rest, Imrahil."


	9. Chapter Nine

After Imrahil's second vision, Finduilas insisted that he remain in his bed for at least a week, and in truth, he did not have the energy to object. To his dismay, there was a third vision the very next day, without any provocation whatsoever. Finduilas witnessed that attack, the first time she'd seen one, and was understandably upset. Andrahar held him, as he had before. When it was done, the prince lay insensible for hours, and woke to an excruciating headache and a feeling of extreme fatigue.

The following day, Imrahil suffered one as well. This time the vision was more chaotic, confusing and formless, the images passing so swiftly that he almost could not even register what they were. The after effects were more severe as well. The headache was so bad that it made him sick to his stomach, and he could not bring himself to eat. He lay, quenched and subdued, in a nest of pillows upon his bed, with the curtains drawn over the windows, for the light hurt his head.

Finduilas had sent to the Houses of Healing the day of the second attack and soon all of the most senior healers were in an uproar, their professional reputations at stake as they endeavored to cure the only son of Gondor's richest nobleman. The noxious potions they concocted and fed to the prince only served to destroy what little appetite the headaches had spared. Imrahil found himself subject to other indignities as well, as they required samples of various bodily fluids to study. Endless whispered consultations took place by his bedside and in the farthest corners of the room. He bore it all patiently until the late afternoon of the fourth day, when one of the healers suggested that the only way to cure him was to drill holes into his skull to release the evil humors.

At that point the objections began, loudly and at length, and said healer shortly found himself being strong-armed to the door of the townhouse by a very swarthy and humorless Swan Knight. He was quickly followed by the rest of his fellows, as the young prince declared that he had had enough medical attention for one day. Andrahar returned from the expulsion to find Finduilas bathing her brother's brow, worry plain upon her face.

"You should have let them stay, Imri. They were only trying to help you."

"They cannot help me. They don't know what is wrong."

Finduilas did not deny it. "At least take the potion they left you for the headache."

"It's poppy, Fin. I don't want to, unless I absolutely have to. Perhaps when I need to sleep." He reached out and took his sister's hand. "It is almost dinnertime. Go get something to eat. Andra can watch me. You won't please the Steward's son if you let yourself get too thin."

"And you won't please me if you don't eat your dinner again."

Imrahil sighed. "I will try to eat, Fin. I promise I will try." With a final squeeze of his hand, Finduilas departed, promising to return with some truly tempting food for him. When she had gone, the prince turned to Andrahar, who was sitting in a chair beside the bed, his face expressionless. His hands, always a more reliable indicator of his emotional state, were toying endlessly with the end of his belt.

"How is your head?" the Haradrim asked in a low voice.

"It hurts," Imrahil admitted, "but not so badly at the moment." He was silent for a little while before he spoke again. "Andra, promise me that you will stay with my father and mother if the healers don't solve this thing. You are a Swan Knight now, and it is not safe for you in Harad."

"I will stay, Imri. But there is no need for such promises. The healers will figure out what is wrong with you."

"Come now, you have no more faith in their nostrums than I do, and I am beginning to think this is not just going to go away on its own. Do you know that my great-grandfather had a brother who died when he was my age? All father would ever say was that he fell ill. I am beginning to wonder if it were not something like this." At Andrahar's look of alarm, he smiled a pained but reassuring smile. "You needn't worry. I am not giving up, nothing like that. But I am getting very tired of this." The prince regarded his friend fondly for a moment, then spoke again, on an entirely different subject. "Do you remember the other day, after my first vision, when you said that your people often chose their own relatives? I asked you how they did that, but you never answered me."

Andrahar thought back briefly, then nodded. "I am sorry. We started speaking about something else, and I never returned to your question. I did not know that you were truly interested."

"Well I am! I was searching through the books in the library for it when Lord Denethor visited me, but I could not find what I was looking for. And I really can't read now, my head aches too much. What exactly were you speaking of?"

The knight-probationer let the belt fall, and gestured gracefully. "There are a couple of customs I was thinking of. Sometimes someone will adopt one not of their blood-kin as a son, if they have no other relative. That is done simply by publicly declaring the person to be their son before three witnesses. There is paperwork that must be completed later, but the declaration is the actual legal binding."

"And the other?"

"Is a blood-oath between two who wish to be the brothers the powers did not create them to be. They take a knife and purify it in the fire." A small, ironic smile. "It is supposed to symbolize that the Sacred Fire is part of the union, but personally, I think it's just so the wounds won't turn putrid." The prince chuckled. "The participants then hold the blade between their right hands and slash their palms; not deep, just enough for the blood to flow. Then they bind their palms together and make their oath of kinship. After that, they are brothers."

Imrahil smiled his most beautiful smile, and Andrahar, watching him, thought that his heart might break. _Of all the things that could have happened, of all the ways that he might perish, I never thought of this! And I can do **nothing** to stop it! I cannot protect him from the inside of his own head!_

"I had hoped it was something like that. I should like to make that oath with you, Andra," the Heir to Dol Amroth said softly to his former street-rat. "I know that it is not what you want from me, but it is what I can give." His face grew a little sad. "Of course, I have been an awful lot of trouble to you over the years, so I would understand if you did not wish to."

The knight-probationer looked at him, his own expression stricken. "Not wish to? Of course I would wish to! But are _you_ certain, Imri? It is for life."

"I would expect nothing less." There was a twinkle in the grey eyes that had been so alarmingly distant much of the time these last couple of days. "Fin will be back soon, now is not a good time. But sometime tomorrow perhaps, when she is resting and you are watching, we will do it."

A brief nod. "I will ready what is required."

"There you go, being practical again. And organized as well. I may be the prince, but it's easy to see who's running things around here." Andrahar looked slightly scandalized and taken aback at the thought. Imrahil chuckled again. "It is all right, Andra! What did father call you once, my nanny? More than a little truth to that, but I don't mind. I rather like it. In fact, I've come to rely upon it. And now, if you don't mind, I think I'll try to sleep a bit before dinner." The prince sighed and closed his eyes, and Andrahar settled himself to watch once more.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

Finduilas not only brought a tray of delicacies for Imrahil and a more robust meal for Andrahar, she also brought Captain Thorongil, clad in sober civilian clothes, though she did not let him into the room until she had asked her brother's permission.

"Are you feeling well enough to receive guests, Imri?"

"Yes, Fin," Imrahil replied with a yawn. "My head is behaving itself at present. And who knows, perhaps a little pleasant dinner conversation will help my appetite." He sniffed with actual appreciation at the tray, and Andrahar's spirits lifted a bit. Perhaps they had seen the last of this problem… "This smells good. Who made it?"

"Eilinel herself. And if you don't eat it, you will break her heart."

"Curious. I usually require a much more hands-on approach to break a lady's heart."

"Imrahil!" But Finduilas did not look all that upset. She seemed cheered by the small show of her brother's usual obstreperousness. "I will leave you with your guest and look back in later. I fully expect to see an empty plate." Imrahil smiled at her and took up his fork. "Thank you, Fin. Please thank Aunt Eilinel as well." He took a bite, ate it, then looked to the door, where Thorongil still waited.

"I beg your pardon, captain! Do come in! In all likelihood, it's safe enough--I've had my episode for the day."

The captain stepped inside, and bowed.

"I am not worried, my lord prince."

"Indeed, why should you be? You've already shown yourself more than capable of dealing with my little eccentricities. Where have you been, by the way? I would have thought you'd have stopped in for dinner at least once by now. You are welcome to join us now, if you wish."

The captain folded his tall form into a chair by the bedside. "No, thank you--I ate before I came. And I did intend to visit earlier, but I've been on patrol, and just returned this evening." He gestured towards Imrahil's bed. "It would appear that your vision did happen again, despite precautions."

"Oh yes. Lord Denethor was present for the second one. He was asking me a lot of questions about you."

Thorongil's expression was regretful. "I apologize, my lord prince. It was never my intention that you find yourself caught between me and Lord Denethor."

"You are not the one making an issue of it, captain." Andrahar, who was eating his own dinner, gave Imrahil a rather pointed look.

"While it's still warm, Imri." The prince turned his attention back to his food, and began to eat again.

"How bad have things been for you?" Thorongil asked. Andrahar swallowed and answered before his lord could, so that Imrahil could continue eating.

"He has had a vision every day since the first one. And he has very bad headaches, so fierce they make him sick to his stomach. This is the most appetite he's had in two days. The healers do not know what to do. They have tried all sorts of things. There was one today who wished to drill holes in his skull."

The captain frowned slightly. "That does not sound particularly helpful." He changed the subject then, to a humorous story from the city that the young prince could listen to without having to stop eating. Imrahil enjoyed it, his eyes twinkling as the tale went progressed, but Thorongil's own eyes were very intent upon Imrahil. Andrahar watched him watch the prince, equally intent. And as he did so, the Haradrim realized a couple of things--that the captain was rather perturbed about the prince's condition, though he hid his alarm well, and also that he was neither puzzled nor surprised.

__

He **knows** what this is!

"If I may be so bold, my lord prince….there is a herbal concoction that I know of, that is good for headaches," Thorongil said when the story was over. "But the ingredients are a little difficult to find in this area, so I doubt that your healers would have thought of it. I would be willing to try to find what is needed and mix it for you, if you wished to try it. It would not harm you, and it might bring you some relief."

Imrahil set his fork down suddenly and swallowed hard. He'd eaten about half the plate, but his eyes were beginning to get the slightly squinty look about them that Andrahar had come to recognize as the headache at its worst.

"I would very much appreciate that, captain. Andra, could you take this? I fear that Aunt Eilinel will simply have to be heart-broken- I cannot eat anything more right now." Andrahar swiftly took the tray and set it on the bedside table, then settled him back against the pillows.

"That came on fast. Is it very bad?"

"Bad enough. And getting worse." Imrahil looked at his dinner plate blearily. "The timing is wretched as well."

"Then you should have some of the poppy, I think, my lord," Andrahar suggested firmly. Having actually gotten a little food into Imrahil, the Haradrim was determined to keep it there. The prince started to nod, thought better of it, and wagged a hand in reluctant acquiescence. Andrahar poured a cup of water and dropped the required dosage into it with speed and precision. Imrahil was propped up enough that Andrahar did not need to lift his head to give him the dose, but he held the cup to his lips.

"Drink all of it, Imri." The prince did so with a grimace, and when he had done, smiled ruefully at Thorongil.

"I fear, captain, that I was not very good company, and I am about to become even less so. Will you forgive me?"

"If you will forgive me for imposing myself upon you when you are so ill, Prince Imrahil." He rose and bowed. "I will see if I can find the herbs I spoke of, and I wish you a peaceful rest this evening."

"Thank you, captain." The prince's voice was soft and weary.

"I will be back in a few moments, Imri. I'm just going to see the captain out." A hand rose and fell once upon the coverlet in acknowledgment, and the two men left the room, Andrahar closing the door softly behind him. Adjusting his strides to Thorongil's longer ones, he stayed by the man's side as they made their way downstairs. But when the captain would have turned down the hall to the front entrance, a hand was laid upon his arm.

"A moment of your time, please, captain." Thorongil's eyebrow arched curiously. "If you would follow me." The taller man did not protest, but allowed the young Swan Knight to lead him to the library. Andrahar, finding it empty, ushered him in and shut the door behind them, then turned and looked up at the captain.

"You know what ails him. I saw it in your eyes."

There was no attempt at denial. The taller man nodded gravely. "I have not actually seen it before, but I have heard of such things. His gift of foresight is out of control, either because it is too strong, or because the _hekadi_ did some damage to his mind."

"What will happen to him?"

"I do not know. He might die from exhaustion, or because his heart gives out during a particularly strong vision. He might go mad from the visions and the pain. He might somehow learn to control them in time, and so survive, though that is the least likely outcome."

"Can you help him?"

"I believe I could give him ease, perhaps help him with the headaches. But the visions would continue. He needs someone more experienced in the ways of those with such gifts to instruct him in controlling them. I do not possess such skills. One of the First-born would know the way of it."

"The _pairiki_? The Elves?"

"Indeed. Though where he would get such an instructor, I do not know. Those of the Golden Wood do not welcome mortals, and such other of the Elder Kindred that could possibly help him live far to the north. He could not make that journey in his current condition."

Andrahar scowled. "There is Edhellond. The southern haven. It is not so far from Dol Amroth. Imrahil has been there before."

Thorongil looked annoyed with himself. "Of course! I had forgotten that. Lord Gildor's people, are they not?"

"Yes. Do you know of him?"

"I have heard something of him. He has been there for a long time, after all." The captain's face had that closed-off expression that it got when he was keeping something to himself. "Would his folk aid the prince?"

"They have befriended the royal house of Dol Amroth. The question is, are _you_ going to aid him?" the knight-probationer asked impatiently.

"I have said that I will seek what I need tonight and tomorrow, and when I find it, I will return," Thorongil promised. "Although there is a condition that comes with my aid."

"And that is?"

"I would very much prefer that Lord Denethor not hear of this. That means that Lady Finduilas should not know what I do here."

"I will do what I can to prevent that, my lord, though it may be difficult. I cannot guarantee that she will not hear something about it."

The captain sighed. "That is unfortunate."

"But I can guarantee one thing," Andrahar responded quickly.

"And that is?"

"That if you possess the means to help Imrahil, and you walk away because of your differences with Lord Denethor and your desire to conceal your ever-so-mysterious past, you had best keep walking right out of Gondor, my lord. For if the prince dies because of your inaction, then I will come for you, no matter how long it takes, and I will take you down."

"Are you _threatening _me, Andrahar?" Thorongil's face went blank and unreadable.

"No, my lord. Threats are for those who need to appear more dangerous than they actually are. I have no such need. I am merely stating my intentions."

The corner of the captain's mouth twitched. "You have sparred with me," he reminded the younger man.

"Indeed. But you have not thrown knives with _me_. I can reliably put a blade in a man's eye from twenty paces. Which renders the question of who is the superior _swordsman_ moot. And you are making the mistake of assuming that this would be an honorable contest."

Thorongil indicated the belt that girded Andrahar's waist. "I would have thought that honor was of some small concern to you."

"If my lord were to perish through my inaction, then I would have no honor until I redeemed it with my death. I would not survive you for long, captain, if that is any consolation."

Thorongil's reaction was not what the Haradrim expected. His rare, disarming grin appeared, and he laughed. "Peace, Andrahar! I have not said that I would not help the prince, even were Denethor to hear of it. I may not refuse Imrahil. For though I've not taken a healer's oath, I know of a healer who would never forgive me were I to walk away from someone in such need. I was raised better than that, you see."

Andrahar shrugged. "Unlike Lord Denethor, I care little about how or where you were raised or who raised you, my lord Thorongil. I know only too well that those of high birth may possess low character, and that the opposite may hold true as well. But I am glad that you will try to help my lord." He moved to the door and opened it, indicating that Thorongil could leave with a bow and gracious gesture. The captain started through, and then paused, turning to lay a gentle hand upon Andrahar's shoulder.

"You would lend him all your strength if you could, but he is stronger than you think. He can endure this, for a little while at least. But you need to convince Princess Finduilas to take him to Dol Amroth. If you must tell her that I told you so to convince her, then do it. I will deal with the consequences of that, if there are any. And get some rest yourself. You look as if you've gotten little of late. I will return tomorrow when I have acquired what I need."

Andrahar nodded, glowering as he tended to do when someone suggested he possessed a weakness of any sort, and watched the captain go.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

Imrahil was deep in drugged sleep when Andrahar returned to the room. Finishing his own supper swiftly and perfunctorily, he piled his plates upon the prince's tray and set everything outside the door. Then he used the prince's washbasin, and pulled his boots and tunic off, setting them on the bedside chair. After a moment's hesitation, the dagger was slipped under the pillow, the sword hung within reach beside the bed, and he went to the wardrobe to find the extra blanket he knew was there.

Getting carefully onto the bed, though there was little chance he would wake Imrahil, he settled himself under the blanket with a bit of space between himself and his lord. His arm bridged the gap, resting upon the young prince's chest, the hand directly over Imrahil's heart. The slow, steady beat soothed and reassured Andrahar, and eventually he dropped into sleep himself.

Thus it was when Finduilas looked in about an hour later. The Princess, knowing how lightly the knight-probationer slept, did not at first step into the room, but when black eyes immediately opened and met hers, she entered. Andrahar made to rise, but she stopped him with an upraised hand.

"Bide where you are, Andrahar. If you stay so close tonight, then I shall seek my own rest. He did not eat very much, though he promised to try."

"He did try, my lady. The headache came back during dinner. He took the poppy that he might keep what he'd eaten down."

The princess gave her brother a worried look. "The healers…have not been able to find anything that will help yet. I hope that they will."

"Lord Thorongil had a suggestion tonight I thought had merit, lady. He thought that the Elves might help where mortals could not, that you should take the prince home and seek help from Edhellond."

Finduilas stepped softly to her brother's side, and stroked his brow. Imrahil did not move. "I had not considered that. Father says the foresight is because of our elven blood. Perhaps Thorongil is right--the Elves have cunning healers. And our own healers are every bit as good as those here in Minas Tirith. I would deem Master Kendrion better. Though I cannot imagine Imrahil being able to make the trip."

"Not by land, but perhaps by ship. He told me the other day that he'd not had the wave dream the whole time he was on the _Asfallin._"

The princess looked surprised. "That is extraordinary! Imri always has the wave dream! Do you suppose that is why he is in so much difficulty now? That the visions were held back for so long that now they are out of control?"

"Imrahil thinks something of the sort. But in any event, a ship would travel more smoothly, upon the River at least, and he could rest upon deck and be far more comfortable than in a carriage. We could take a healer with us. The voyage downstream is relatively swift as well. The weather is fair at present, and will hold so for some time to come. The season of storms is not upon us yet." Andrahar's gaze, as it rested upon the prince, was very worried. "I do not believe the healers are going to come up with anything more that is particularly useful after today's little display, my lady."

Finduilas' brow creased. "Perhaps not."

"And there is something else to consider, though I do not like to speak of it," Andrahar said very softly. "If it is your brother's fate to perish," the princess flinched, "then I know he would prefer to be with his parents. You sent to them, think you that they will come here?"

"It would not surprise me in the least. My message has not arrived there yet, of course, but I was very alarmed and I think Mother and Father will know that, from both my letter and Uncle Aerandir's."

"Then were we to take ship, we would more than likely meet them on the way."

Finduilas nodded. "I could send another message to inform them of our intent. The captain's idea does indeed have some merit, Andrahar. I will speak to Uncle tomorrow about it. And speaking of Uncle, you should sleep in tomorrow. He said to me this evening that you've been at morning practice every day for weeks now without pause, and that while such zeal was admirable, any body, even yours, needs to rest now and then. He threatened to chase you off the lists should you show up." At the Haradrim's snort, she smiled, a smile very like Imrahil's. "I will make you a bargain. You sleep in with Imri here, and I will sleep late myself in the morning, knowing that he is safe with you. We will both benefit."

Imrahil and Adrahil, Andrahar reflected, were not the only persuasive people in the royal family of Dol Amroth. And the princess had been getting little rest…He inclined his head in polite acknowledgement and lay back upon the bed, while she kissed her brother's brow, and fussed with the edge of the coverlet, pulling it up slightly.

"Good night, Andrahar."

"Good night, my lady."

"We will see what counsel the morning brings." She departed with a last smile for him. When the door had closed, Andrahar draped his arm over Imrahil as he had before, but this time, there was a quiet, wordless murmur from the prince, and his hand flopped up to rest upon his friend's. The Haradrim sighed, and let himself slip back into slumber, and dreaming.


	10. Chapter Ten

2970

The sun had barely risen over the yardarm, but Captain Gaeradan could feel yet another crop of grey hair growing.

"I should like to go to the lower market, just for a little while before we leave," his charge, the young Heir to Dol Amroth said. "It is on the way to the ship."

"It is not the route suggested to us by the Lord Khaldun. And it will make us late. Besides, my lord prince, you've already shopped the upper markets."

"They were too much like Dol Amroth's." It was not quite a pout, Prince Imrahil's nature was too sunny for that, but it was close. "I want to find something gruesome and Haradric for Fin. Like a dried baby Mumak foot."

"The Lord of Umbar gifted your mother and your sister with many fine gifts. I'm sure they will suffice. And I doubt that your sister would appreciate a dried baby Mumak foot."

The Prince stopped in his tracks, causing Gaeradan's marines and his escort of Swan Knights to come to an untidy and sudden halt.

"Captain, I have been good!" he declared. "I have gone nowhere during this journey without the huge escort you insisted upon. I have drunk no more wine or liquor than the minimum hospitality requires, and taken none of the drugs I was offered. I paid court to Lord Khaldun's older daughter as was expected, even when she was obviously enamored of young Lord Husayn. And when Lord Khaldun's younger daughter slipped her skinny little eleven-year-old body naked into my bed so that she could compromise me and make me betroth _her_ instead , you said I behaved just as I ought. I successfully and diplomatically fended off no less than three attempts to seduce and bugger me on the part of the court's lords, and four attempts on the part of the court's ladies to seduce and commit adultery with me. And I am now going shopping for a dried baby Mumak foot by way of reward."

Gaeradan, who had been Prince Adrahil's dear friend since boyhood, recognized all too well the obstinacy of Adrahil's wife, the Princess Olwen, as manifested in her son. With a sigh, he conceded the battle.

"Very well then, my lord. But let us not tarry long. My sailors long to see home again."

"As do I. This should not take long, captain. I'm sure there are all manner of interesting things there."

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

The sun was barely over the rooftops, and already Andrahar was having a very bad day. He was old enough now that the slender boyishness most Haradric men preferred was filling out, so his career as a male prostitute was almost over. This meant that more and more he had to rely upon thievery as a means of survival. There were risks in either profession, and neither appealed to his sense of honor, but whoring was at least an exchange of goods and services rather than outright larceny. His dislike of theft caused him to do it as little as possible, and when he did, he chose the richest target he thought he could manage. Which was how he had come the night before to be fleeing over rooftops from the very competent bodyguards of a very wealthy man. He had succeeded in evading them with his spoils, but then had slipped upon a loose tile while climbing down from a rooftop, fallen instead and injured his foot, which had cracked against the edge of a stone water trough.

There was a bone broken within it, he was reasonably sure, perhaps more than one. And that was a calamity for a young man who had finally gotten the growth he needed to go ask for work in one of the mercenary companies. The regular army would not take a bastard who could name neither his house nor his father, but the foreign mercenaries were not so particular. And though he'd not held a sword in his hand for five years, such weapons not being permitted to the lowly, he'd kept in practice with his knives and felt confident his skills would return when he was given the chance to practice them once more.

But now he was injured and would be unable to seek such work, or indeed steal any more for a while. So the admittedly rich haul he'd gotten the night before would have to be stretched to serve him for some time to come, since there was no job he could do for the immediate future save that which could be done upon one's back. And he had resolved to be done with that in any event, except in the case of utmost desperation. Having pulled the whore's braids from his hair, he went about now with it simply bound back, and of a length appropriate for a common man of no rank or status.

This morning, after a night made sleepless by pain, Andrahar had paid the month's rent for his tiny room from the proceeds of his night's work, with extra thrown in so that the landlord's wife would cook for him for the next month. Then he had ventured forth in the light of day, which was not his usual habit, to hire a barber-surgeon to set and bind his foot, and to obtain herbs to make teas for the pain, and to speed the knitting of the bones. He'd bound it the best he could himself with an old head-scarf and forced his soft boot back on over the result, though it had made him dizzy and sick to do so. Once the surgeon had seen to the foot, his intention was to lie low for a month and stay off of it so that it would heal properly. He would become somewhat soft, but there was no help for that, and it was better than being permanently lamed. When the foot had healed, he would at last be able to seek honorable employment, something he'd been looking forward to ever since he'd achieved his freedom from slavery by killing a man who would have raped and tortured him.

Being an escaped slave was one of the reasons Andrahar did not go abroad much during the day, the other being that both of his means of earning money were better suited to the evening hours. And when he did go out, he made sure to keep to the poorer quarters of the city for the most part, that he might avoid possible encounters with anyone who would know him from his former life, for members of the _khan_ of Bakshir's household did come to Umbar fairly often. These precautions had served him well for the two years he had been free, and might have served him again this day, save for a couple of coincidences. One was that Irrishdar son of Isulhar just happened to be passing through the lower markets on the way to the docks. A vessel that was one of his father's trading ventures had made port, and he was going to inspect the goods, accompanied by a sizeable escort to spare him the indignity of having contact with Umbar's poorest element.

Irrishdar was Andrahar's cousin, though he would have been gravely offended had someone pointed out the connection. His father was Andrahar's uncle by blood, but his mother had been one of the man's wives rather than a slave. He was his father's heir, and a man of some consequence in Bakshir, and very disinclined to let anyone forget it.

The other coincidence was that during Andrahar's most recent growth spurt, the one that had curtailed his career as a prostitute, he had lost softness in his face as well as his body, and the handsome, hawkish features he'd inherited from his father were far more obvious, as was his overall resemblance to the late khan of Bakshir. Not having regular access to a mirror, this was not something that he was aware of, nor was he someone who worried a great deal about appearances in any event. But it might have given him pause, and caused him to try to disguise himself in some way, had he known about it. As time had passed, he had in fact relaxed a bit, figuring not unreasonably that the possibility of being identified had decreased with the passage of time, that it was unlikely that anyone would see the slave boy in the face of the young man.

So he was startled when, leaning on a stick, he limped out of the apothecary with his purchases and an angry voice accosted him.

"YOU! SLAVE!" A cold thrill of fear ran through him, but he was careful to keep moving calmly as if he could not possibly be the person being addressed. The ruse did not work, however, and he soon found himself confronted and surrounded by Irrishdar's guards. He waited stolidly as Irrishdar himself approached, with the patient air of one of lowly caste at the disposal of one of higher estate.

"We had heard that you had escaped your master! Have you become so bold that you do not fear the retribution due you? You were always impertinent!"

Andrahar endeavored to look puzzled, and was careful to coarsen his speech. "Most excellent sir, this lowly one does not know of what you speak. I am a hostler. A thrice-accursed mule kicked me yesterday, and I seek medicines for my injured foot. Is there some way my unworthy self might be of service to you?"

Irrishdar was taken aback for a moment. Then, studying Andrahar's face once more, his own expression hardened. "Take off your shirt."

Andrahar bowed his head. "'Tis not seemly, my lord." Whereupon the Haradrim lord made a gesture and two of his guards seized Andrahar by the arms, pulling them out to the side. One of the guards, gripping his forearm, frowned and pulled the knife from the hidden wrist sheath there.

"My lord, he is armed." The other guard followed suit, and deprived him of his other knife. Irrishdar examined the blades, and smiled unpleasantly.

"A hostler you say? Who goes armed?"

Andrahar tried to look as guileless as possible. "A wise man goes armed in the streets of this city. It is a dangerous place."

A third guard came and searched Andrahar more thoroughly, in the process discovering the small throwing dagger in the boot on his uninjured foot. Irrishdar raised an eyebrow, and commanding the guard to kneel and seize Andrahar about the thighs, stepped forward himself and pulled up the worn linen shirt. There was a white, wealed burn scar beneath the left arm upon the upper ribs, where a slave tattoo was customarily placed.

"A peculiar place for a burn. One might almost think it was to obscure a slave mark."

"I was burned as a child, mighty lord." Which was a patent untruth. After he'd slain his would-be oppressor with a fireplace tong, Andrahar had thrust the implement into the flames, fanned them till it was red hot, and with a supreme act of will had seared the tattoo from his flesh. "I am not a slave."

Irrishdar stared at him for a long moment. "Perhaps not," he conceded. "Release him and return to him his weapons," he instructed the guards, who did so slowly, with disbelieving looks at their master. Andrahar quickly sheathed them once more in their accustomed places. The Haradrim lord retreated back behind his escort.

"My apologies for detaining you, hostler," Irrishdar said. Andrahar bowed, as was proper and required, though it made his skin crawl to do so. And rightly so, for when he was bent forward Irrishdar suddenly cried, "TAKE HIM!"

There were two guards upon him, and no time. Dropping the stick, left hand to right sheath, right to left, two knives snapped out barely in time to parry two scimitars. Andrahar ducked to his left, onto his good foot, right-hand knife scraping free with a screech and planted it into the side of the guard's neck. As the man fell, he intended to spin back around and parry the other guard's second swing, but his injury slowed him too much. The other guard slipped past his blade and deliberately stomped a booted foot down upon his injured one.

Pain exploded whitely behind Andrahar's eyes, and he screamed, dropping to the ground helplessly, sobbing and retching upon the cobbles of the market place. Eyes blinded by tears of agony, he felt hands seize him once more, removing his weapons again, but he could do nothing to resist them. They endeavored to haul him to his feet, but he was doubled over and could put no weight upon the injured leg, so he ended by hanging in the grip of two guards. Irrishdar stepped forward once more, glanced at the gurgling, dying guard impassively, then hauled Andrahar's head up by the hair. He regarded the former slave's tear-stained face with some satisfaction.

"I _knew _it was you, Andrahar. Who would have thought you could have survived so long upon your own?"

"Who would have thought you could have acquired some wit in your old age, _cousin?_" Andrahar spat back, for his life was forfeit now and there was no need to prevaricate any longer. Irrishdar backhanded him across the face with a pleasant smile, once, twice, thrice.

"Impertinence. Uncle always indulged you, 'tis why you never learned your place. And Ulantoris was overly kind as well, or you would not have endeavored to escape. Perhaps I should return you to him. You are not what you once were, but you've reached Second Maturity, and the Khandians can always use more eunuchs." He reached a hand down between Andrahar's legs, seized and squeezed. Andrahar, beginning to recover himself, let out a soft groan, but nothing else. His black eyes were filled with impotent fury. Noting this, Irrishdar took another look at his now dead guard and shook his head with mock regret.

"No, perhaps that would not be a good idea. The man is an ally of our house after all, and I deem you entirely too dangerous to return to him. I should not like harm to befall him. T'would be best to kill you instead. Slowly, of course. Bind his hands behind his back," he directed the guards. "The thousand cuts, I think, is what is called for here."

Grinning, the guards pulled his hands behind his back, and a couple of them sacrificed turban cords to bind him. Andrahar struggled, but it was a futile endeavor--they were too many and too strong. He contemplated the next, last, excruciatingly painful hour of his life and decided that the morning was not going at all well.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

Things had not improved much for Captain Gaeradan either. The young prince strolled slowly through the marketplace with a complete disregard for tides or military schedules. He was not having any luck finding a dried baby Mumak foot, but there were plenty of other sights, sounds and smells to beguile him. Tossing a silver to a snake charmer who had intrigued him started what would have been a veritable flood of beggars, but they were repelled by the prompt interposing of blue and silver bodies between them and the prince.

"Don't do that again, Imrahil!" Gaeradan growled. "You're just asking for trouble." The Heir looked at the captain, noted the lack of honorific, decided that he was perhaps being a little too provoking, and gave the captain a beatific smile.

"Very well, Captain." Then he sniffed appreciatively. A nearby stall was selling little skewers of some sort of meat and vegetables. "Those smell good! What are they?"

"The Valar only know. Cat, dog or rat, most likely. Though they'll claim it's chicken." But if the captain had hoped to dissuade his royal charge, it did not work.

"_Really_? I've never had cat or dog or rat before." Imrahil started towards the stall, only to be halted by the captain's upraised hand.

"No, my lord prince. 'Tis not a cleanly kitchen. Eat that, and your bowels will run out your backside." The crudity of the image caught the young prince's attention as a more reasoned argument might not have.

"Oh. Well. After having to be so careful about the water, I suppose it would be foolish to invite trouble." He turned away from the stall with a last regretful sniff, and Gaeradan took the opportunity to hasten him past the next section of stalls, hoping to forestall further difficulty. Instead, he unwittingly ushered him right into it.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

The day was beginning to heat up. In a couple of hours, the marketplace would shut down until the late afternoon, when it would become cool enough again to come out and shop. But for now, there were plenty of gawkers to gather about the space in the center of the market place where nine men with scimitars surrounded one young man with his hands bound behind his back. Irrishdar, deprived of his usual protection because all of his guards were in the circle, was nonetheless at the center of small clear space of his own at the side of the circle. Respect was being given him both for his birth and as the architect of this morning's entertainment.

"I am Irrishdar, first-born son of Isulhar of Bakshir," he announced to the crowd. "This man is a slave born of my house and sold to an ally. He escaped from our friend, and has gone renegade. See where he slew one of my guards! For his escape and many other crimes, I have declared that he should die by the thousand cuts." This announcement having satisfied the legalities as far as the laws of Harad were concerned, Irrishdar indicated that the guards should begin. A roar went up from the crowd.

A scimitar snaked out, and kissed the back of Andrahar's upper arm, causing little more than a scratch, whilst another did the same to his thigh. Someone in the crowd began to count, and others took up the tally. The thousand cuts was a long and painful way to die, the length and duration depending upon the skill of the swordsmen, the strength of the victim, and the patience of the executioner. The cuts, mere scratches at first to non-vital areas, would in time become deeper and more serious wounds. It was considered the height of artistry for the victim to survive until the very final slash was delivered, but in actuality this did not often happen, save at the court of the _Kha-khan_ himself, who had master swordsmen and practitioners of torture, and the leisure to see such things properly through to the end.

But even with a more abbreviated form of the method, Andrahar's death was a given, and the only thing left to him was the manner in which he would go about it. Victims often tried to throw themselves upon a blade to end the torture, but it usually did not work. The swordsmen expected such actions, and were ready for them. And his foot slowed him too much to make that practical in any event, or to attempt to dodge between two of the swordsmen and escape. In fact, for the moment, he made no move to evade the weapons at all, simply standing in the center of the circle, enduring the slashes, barely dotting his broken foot onto the cobbles as he plotted his best course of action.

For he still had one last weapon left, that had not been discovered by any of the guards. Another slender throwing blade, slimmer even than the one in his boot, lay bound into the back of his thick black hair. It might as well be across the market or even the sea for all the good it was to him at the moment, but he was thinking that if he could summon the strength to dodge backwards the wrong way at just the right moment, one of the scimitars might sever part of the bindings about his wrists. It was a risky move, for his hand or arm or fingers might be severed as well, but he had little to lose at this point. If he could free his hands and one was still functional, then it was his intention to use his hold-out weapon for one last act of defiance. He was going to die, but he was determined to take Irrishdar with him. Another benefit of his plan was that more likely than not, if their lord was slain, the guards would give up on artistry and see that his own death followed swiftly after.

This decided, he began to move slowly and dodge a bit, to make them work for his death, awaiting his chance to move and die as something other than a shredded, mutilated, mewling travesty of a man.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

Gaeradan had hurried the prince into the next part of the market, only to stop in dismay at the spectacle before him; the crowd chanting the count, the blood-spattered young man in the center of the circle. Turning away immediately, he gripped Imrahil's upper arm and began to urge him back the way he had come.

"Come, my lord, this is none of our affair." But Imrahil stiffened, dug his heels in and refused to move. His eyes flickered over the scene and his face paled.

"What goes on here?" he murmured, distressed.

"Nothing we can do anything about. Come _away_, my lord prince!"

Taller already at sixteen than most of the Haradrim between himself and the circle, Imrahil could see clearly the young man in the center. He looked to be no older than Imrahil, his clothes of no particular quality, one foot obviously badly injured. Moved by his plight, the young prince started forward, only to find the captain a large, immovable object clamped onto his arm.

"_NO_, my lord! We know nothing of what goes on here! The punishment is probably deserved and it is a custom of these people. You risk a riot if you intervene!"

The normally cheerful prince's eyes became grey ice, his voice chill as a northern storm.

"_Captain_. Take your hands _off_of me!" Hearing the note in the prince's voice, two of the Swan Knights stepped forward. One of them, the commander of the detachment, Valandil by name, laid a hand upon the captain's shoulder.

"Let us handle this, captain," he said respectfully; then, turning to the prince, asked, "What is your will, my lord?"

"To get closer." Captain Gaeradan stepped back, affront plain upon his face.

"Your father will hear of this, my lord prince," he warned.

"Of that I have no doubt," Imrahil replied absently, intent upon his destination, his Swan Knights closing up around him. When they had done so, he moved swiftly towards the edge of the ring. The crowd parted easily before the armed men, and it took but a few moments to achieve his desired vantage point.

The count had just reached twenty, and it was easy enough to discern that the crowd was numbering the sword slashes inflicted upon the young man, who even with an injured foot was managing to avoid some of the blows.

"Swift of foot, even with only one of them working," Valandil commented, watching the action.

"What is wrong with it, do you think?" Imrahil asked.

"Very badly sprained, or broken. I suspect broken from the way he's carrying it. It's a miracle he can even stand. He's had some arms training, I can tell you that from the way he moves." As they were speaking, three more slashes had found their mark. The young man's shirt was beginning to look quite shredded, and small bloody patches were growing upon it.

"A slave with arms training?"

"He may have been being groomed to be a bodyguard of some sort," the Swan Knight speculated.

Imrahil watched, body taut with sympathy for the boy. Awkwardly but successfully dodging blades coming in from both sides, he turned in the prince's direction, and his eyes met Imrahil's for a moment. Black eyes, dark as coal or shadow or despair. The prince sucked in a quick breath at the intensity of that gaze.Yet there was no despair on the boy's handsome face, or fear for that matter, only determination. Even now, outnumbered and helpless, he had not given up.

And when Imrahil saw that, his heart was moved, and he decided in an instant that he could not let such courage perish in so base and unfair a fashion. He looked at the Swan Knight with a rueful smile. "I apologize in advance, my lord Valandil. Ifear I am about to intervene and cause a riot. Stand ready."

Valandil, his face grim as he watched, nodded. "I understand, my lord. Completely."

And as Captain Gaeradan and his marines looked on in horror, the Heir to Dol Amroth lifted his head and shouted, "HOLD!"

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

Things were not so bad yet, but Andrahar knew they were just beginning. The slashes stung and burned when he moved, and he was sweating now, so that made them sting even worse. The pain in his foot was both sickening and frustrating--he knew what he was capable of when he was well, and he kept trying to move as if he were, only to be brought up short by the pain.

The gleeful smiles upon the faces of his tormentors, and the crowd's joyous numbering of his injuries were no more than he expected, in the last act of a short life which had never known friends or love outside that given by his late parents. The mob thirsted for his blood, and when they had had their fill of it, his body would be tossed upon the refuse heap for the dogs to eat, even as his mother's had been. There would be no one to mourn or remember him. He tried to set these thoughts aside, to keep his mind clear so that he could make the last decision left to him, the timing of his attempt to free himself and kill Irrishdar. But it was hard, for in the end he was truly little more than a boy, weary of the cruelty that had been his lot to endure and certainly not ready to die.

Two of the swordsmen made simultaneous moves, and he barely avoided them both, having to spin awkwardly to do so. And then, amidst the howling spectators, he saw something inexplicable, something that had not been there before. A _pairiki_ he thought it must be at first, the most beautiful boy he had ever seen, white-skinned save for where the fierce sun had kissed a blush onto high-boned cheeks. Then he realized that the lad was one of the Gondorrim and of high degree, judging from the richness of his garments. Night-black hair fell about his shoulders, and eyes grey as rain met Andrahar's. There was a shock, as if the two of them had physically touched, and the Gondorrim'seyes widened for a moment. To the former slave's amazement, there was sympathy in the gaze of he who should have been Andrahar's enemy.

Like some sort of beautiful messenger of death the boy seemed to Andrahar. So what he did next was totally inexplicable. On a morning when the boy-whore could find no friend among his countrymen, it was a lord of Gondor who commanded that the execution should halt.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

The swordsmen, confused, did stop but looked over to someone on the other side of the circle for direction. There was a bit of muttering from the crowd, and the prince could hear Captain Gaeradan softly cursing. Having learned a bit about how things were done in Harad, and being reasonably sure that he was the ranking party (for unless the Lord of Umbar, the _kha-khan_ himself or one of the other _khans_ was involved, he was), Imrahil waited with an expression of patient hauteur, one hand hooked in his belt, the other studying his rings.

A Haradric lord moved around the perimeter of the circle to confront him, a young man in his early twenties, whose anger at the interruption was quickly throttled back when he saw the Swan Knights and who it was that he was confronting.

"Irrishdar, first-born of Isulhar of Bakshir," he introduced himself.

"Imrahil, first-born of Adrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth," the young prince said pleasantly. There was a delicate emphasis upon the word prince, so that Irrishdar would know that he claimed precedence.

The son of Isulhar took the hint. "How may I serve you, worthy one?"

The Heir gestured towards the circle and the bloodstained young man who stood in the middle, catching his breath. "What is this?" he asked in a tone of polite interest. "Some sort of public amusement? I have not seen the like during my visit."

"This? This is an execution, my lord prince. The man is a slave, formerly of my uncle's house, sold to an ally. He escaped two years ago. Such a crime is punishable by death. I discovered him this morning, whereupon he endeavored to escape again and in the attempt, killed one of my guards. So I told his crimes to the crowd, and am executing him with the thousand cuts."

"What is that?"

"My men are skilled swordsmen. They will slash him with small wounds until he dies. It is a interesting spectacle, when done by able men."

"It seems as if it would take a long time."

"With respect, worthy one, that is the very point of the method."

"Ah. I see." Imrahil studied Andrahar for a moment. "Satisfy my curiosity about one other small matter, if you would, my lord Irrishdar. How is it that a mere slave was able to slay one of your highly trained guards?"

Irrishdar grimaced. "He was trained in arms as a young lad by his…master, for he had a gift for such things."

The prince's eyebrow arched delicately. He was aware of the captain watching him, and Valandil and the other Swan Knights scanning the crowd for trouble. "How extraordinary. I thank you for satisfying my curiosity about the matter." He looked Irrishdar up and down for a moment, studying him. "Allow me to express my appreciation with a small gift." And he pulled the richest of his rings from his finger, a band of gold with diamonds and a sizeable sapphire, and presented it to the Haradrim lord.

Captain Gaeradan's eyebrows flew up in surprise. The young prince had apparently been paying attention during the endless presentations at court after all, it seemed. There could be a degree of calculated cruelty in the giving of gifts by the high-born. When one above your station condescended to present you with a gift, you were supposed to swiftly reciprocate in kind, or lose face. And Irrishdar, while richly clothed, had nothing upon him that was the equivalent of what Imrahil had just given him, which Imrahil knew well.

The Haradrim lord accepted the ring with the same enthusiasm he might have shown upon being handed an asp. "My lord is generous. I have nothing to match such munificence at present, but if my lord would accompany me to my quarters here in the city…"

Imrahil turned limpid eyes upon him. "'Tis not necessary, worthy son of Isulhar. You have something that interests me. Give me the slave, and I will consider that a princely gift indeed."

"The slave? He is a renegade, my lord prince, a condemned man. He is hardly worthy of your notice."

"On the contrary. You have no idea of the difficulty involved in getting appropriate subjects for my Swan Knights to practice upon." Behind the prince, Valandil cleared his throat. "Pirates are disappointing as a rule, they have few true swordsmanship skills. If he has been trained as you said, I dare say he will last longer than the pirates do. I consider him a most satisfactory gift."

__

The boy is cannier than I thought, Captain Gaeradan reflected, as Irrishdar surrendered to the inevitable, gave the necessary orders, and had his men drag the slave forward. _Had he sought to buy the slave, the Haradrim would have been sorely offended. But by gifting Irrishdar, he left him with no other choice._

The crowd, being deprived of their morning amusement, muttered angrily. Irrishdar rounded on them. "Be _silent,_ you curs! The noble prince takes this one to torment in the land of the Gondorrim, where he will suffer beyond any imagining." That, as well as the presence of two sets of armed guards who would not tolerate any trouble seemed to impress them, for they began to disperse back to their morning tasks. The Haradrim lord, having reflected upon Andrahar's eventual fate and the value of the ring, seemed reasonably pleased as well. He bowed to Imrahil.

"I regret that business calls me away, my lord prince, but it was a pleasure meeting you."

The Heir to Dol Amroth inclined his head graciously. "And you, my lord Irrishdar. I will not forget your generosity when I send my thanks to the Lord of Umbar for my very pleasant visit." He turned to Gaeradan. "Captain, have a couple of your marines carry the slave--he cannot walk, and we have a ship to catch."

"Finally remembered that, did you, my lord?" Captain Gaeradan muttered, but ordered the men forward. Andrahar was picked up much like a rolled carpet, with one man holding him about the knees and the other about the shoulders. Whereupon the Heir of Dol Amroth processed grandly from the lower market, having successfully shopped for his Haradric souvenir.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

Andrahar was a bit overwhelmed at having cheated death, at least for the moment, and offered no resistance. Whatever the prince intended to do to him would not be done immediately, so he took the opportunity to rest. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to ignore the pain of his more minor injuries as well as that which jolted through his foot at every step the marines took. The foot was swelling within his boot, he could feel the constriction and knew that he would have to get both boot and bindings off soon. But there was nothing he could do about that at present, so he tried to calm himself, control his breathing and ride out the pain. And listen to his new captors, who were unaware that he spoke fluent Westron.

"And what exactly am I supposed to tell your father, my lord?" Captain Gaeradan was growling, as they made their way towards the docks. "He put you in my charge for this journey, and will blame this upon me."

"You do not have to tell my father anything, captain. I will inform him that it was my responsibility."

"That ring you gave Irrishdar was worth--"

"--the price of a man's life, don't you think?" Imrahil interjected. "Again, my responsibility. I think Father will understand."

"Understand _what_? That you risked your person and that of your party to rescue some Haradrim _criminal_?"

"He is a slave who did not want to be a slave. Hardly a crime."

"We do not know what other crimes he may have committed. But in any event, what are you going to do with him? Simply set him loose in Dol Amroth? How will he get along, not speaking any of our tongue? He is your responsibility now as well, my lord prince."

"I am familiar with the old adage, captain, and I will see that he is taken care of."

"_How_?"

"With all due respect, sir, that is my problem, and not yours."

"We could always use him for a pell," came Valandil's dry comment. "Wasn't that what you told Lord Irrishdar? That we bloodthirsty Swan Knights run through Haradrim pirates more quickly than you can catch them?"

"I told Irrishdar what I thought he wanted to hear. That was theater, lord Valandil. And I did apologize to you in advance."

"You apologized for the potential riot. Not for slandering the Swan Knights."

"I start my esquire training upon our return, Valandil. You can take it out of my hide then."

"Fair enough, my lord."

Andrahar, listening to all of this, suddenly realized that he was not going to be used to blood fledgling Swan Knights; that whatever his fate might be, death was not going to be a part of it. The knowledge went a long way towards enabling him to relax.

Captain Gaeradan subsided, muttering, and no more was said until the party reached the ship and boarded. Then the prince turned towards where the marines were setting Andrahar down, and followed by Valandil and another of the Knights, moved to his side. Kneeling, Imrahil carefully severed his bonds with a belt knife, then laid a gentle hand upon the Haradrim's shoulder, and spoke to him in his native tongue.

"Do not try to get up by yourself. I will help you."

But Andrahar did not seek to get up, for honor demanded otherwise. Rolling onto his belly and seizing the prince's hand, he kissed it, then pressed his forehead to the planks. His injured foot was cocked up so that it would not touch the deck.

"My apologies, most worthy one, that I cannot properly prostrate myself," he said in flawless Westron. Gaeradan and the Swan Knights exchanged surprised glances. "A life lies between us. Until I redeem that debt or death take me, I am your man."

Imrahil squeezed his hand in return, and looked up at Gaeradan with a smile. "There. You see, captain? The problem is solved already. He is my man."

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

Andrahar awoke to a rocking sensation. It took him a few moments to remember that he was on a ship bound for Gondor, and that he had oath-bound himself to a prince of that land. He found himself in a bed that was built into a cupboard in the hull of the ship, narrow, but well-padded. His broken foot rested upon a pillow, and though it ached dully was not overly painful. It had been swathed in some sort of stiffened wrappings to hold it immobile.

Pale grey light could be seen through the cabin's leaded window. He remembered the previous day, when he had been helped to bathe, his minor injuries tended by the surgeon accompanying the prince, and clothed in one of the prince's extra nightshirts. Food had been offered him, then later that evening the surgeon, a Master Kendrion by name, had returned and dosed him with poppy so that the foot might be set. The prince had stayed at his side as he had fallen asleep, and his concerned grey eyes were the last thing Andrahar remembered.

He looked slowly about for his benefactor, and after a moment saw a hammock slung close to the opposite wall. A tall, lanky figure lay within it, a rumpled blanket over his face. A breeches-clad lower leg and bare foot dangled over the edge of the hammock., from which came a sound of gentle snoring.

Bemusedly, the Haradrim contemplated the spectacle of a prince who would give up his best bed to a street-rat. The Gondorrim were obviously even stranger than he'd always heard.

As if sensing his regard, the prince stirred, yawned, squirmed a little, tried to pull the leg back up, then tried to turn over. The whole hammock turned over instead, and the Heir to Dol Amroth tumbled out onto the floor with an "oof!".

Andrahar quickly stifled the laugh he felt welling up in him. It would not do to express humor at the sight of his lord falling in such a manner. And he was a bit surprised at himself, for it had been a long time since he had felt the urge to laugh at all.

Whispered curses issued forth from the royal lips, and a decidedly bleary pair of grey eyes looked up and met his.

"Is it even morning yet?"

"It is just before dawn, my lord." The prince sat up, scrubbed at his face with his hands, and regarded the tangled hammock balefully.

"That looked like it was going to be easier than it turned out to be."

"T'was my place to sleep there, my lord. Or upon the floor."

"You cannot afford to take a fall like that at present. And no one sleeps on the floor in my presence."

"I apologize, my lord, if I have offended against one of your customs. It will take me some time to become accustomed to your peoples' ways."

"You're doing well enough so far. You speak our language very well."

Andrahar bowed his head. "I was a slave in a noble house. Such was the custom there." He looked up again after a moment and met the prince's gaze directly. "There are things that you should know, my lord. I was a pleasure slave after I was sold out of my original home, and after I escaped, I continued to sell my body for the money I needed to survive. . I have also been a thief. I did not wish to do either, but I had always been small for my age and my fugitive status made regular employment impossible. It is only the last few months that I finally grew enough that I could seek honorable employment in a mercenary company. If you do not wish to accept my service, knowing these things about me, then I will understand. You may cast me adrift in the world, or slay me if that is your wish." He looked out the stern window for a moment. "If I might be so bold as to presume…if you do decide to slay me, I would prefer it be with a sword. I should not like to drown."

Imrahil got to his feet, and sauntered over, bending his head a bit to keep from hitting it upon the low ceiling of the cabin, but adjusting easily to the movement of the ship. He settled himself carefully upon the edge of Andrahar's bed, so as to avoid jarring the foot.

"Goodness, what a morose fellow you are! Is it your intention to break your oath to me?"

"_No_, my lord!" ire flashed in the black eyes for a moment before being quickly suppressed once more. The young prince chuckled.

"Then why would I wish to slay you?"

"How can you believe the word of a slave? I have no honor!"

"Where I come from, there are no slaves, and _anyone_ can have honor. They make it for themselves. Besides, from what little I've seen, you made a very poor slave. You may as well try your luck as a free man--perhaps you'll do better."

"I am not a free man, my lord. I am _your_ man."

Imrahil's brow furrowed at that. "It is hardly my intention to treat you as a slave! Not ever having had a sworn man of my own before, I would like to think it would be a condition that was an improvement upon slavery!" He gave Andrahar a sincere look. "Though I will warn you--those who know me best say that I have a very impulsive nature."

Andrahar stared up at the young man who had saved his life, seen to his wounds, fed and clothed him and given him his very own bed, and wondered if he dared say what was on his mind. He would not have among his own folk, but this Gondorrim lord was definitely nothing like the nobles of his own people. He decided to risk it.

"From my point of view, my lord, your impulsive nature is one of your more attractive qualities."

Imrahil stared at him for so long that Andrahar began to wonder if he had made a dreadful mistake. Then a huge grin broke over the prince's face like sunrise, and he threw back his head and laughed long and merrily.

"Oh! You _do_ have a sense of humor! I am so very glad, because you are going to need it!" He rose to his feet again. "I will go see if breakfast is ready. Do you need the chamber pot?"

Andrahar stared at him, appalled. "That is not for you to do, my lord!"

"If you wait on Master Kendrion, you'll be waiting a while yet-he is not so young as he used to be." Seeing the Haradrim's disapproving look, the prince laughed again.

"Very well then. On your head be it…" As the glower continued, Imrahil shook a finger at him. "Cheer up," he chided. "All will be well. You'll see." And he departed, leaving Andrahar to watch the dawn of his new life through the window.

__

This morning, the former slave reflected to himself, _looks to be getting off to a better start than the last one!_


	11. Chapter Eleven

September 2975

He woke with a start, disoriented. Someone was calling his name, and squeezing his hand.

"Andra. Andra, wake up!" Turning his head, he saw Imrahil staring at him with concern. "You were having a nightmare."

"Was I?" He struggled to recollect, and after a moment, remembered. The young prince watched his face darken.

"Yes, you were. Tossing and turning and crying out. It's all right, I don't mind. I've often wondered why you don't have them all the time, with the life you've led."

"I am very sorry to have disturbed your rest, Imri."

Imrahil cast a glance out the window, where the sky was just beginning to lighten. "I've been sleeping since early yesterday evening. I can't sleep my life away." He turned his attention back to his friend. "Do you want to talk about it? Can you remember what it was about?"

The Heir released his hand and Andrahar rolled onto his back. "It was the market again," he said, staring up at the swanship-embroidered bed canopy. "The market where you found me. Only this time, you never came."

"What happened, Andra?" came the question, quiet as the murmur of the sea in the distance.

"What do you think?"

There was silence for a moment, then he heard the covers rustle. A long arm snaked beneath him and drew him across the short distance that separated him from his lord. The next thing he knew, Imrahil was holding him close.

"I am still here. It is not my intention to go anywhere without you."

Trust Imrahil to get to the heart of the matter, Andrahar thought. _It probably **is **my fear of a future without him that caused me to dream of a past without him. _He tensed for a moment, then relaxed and allowed himself to be comforted by his lord's proximity. There was no desire in him at all for the prince at present, unnerved as he was by the dream, other than what he deemed a rather childish desire for reassurance. He rested there for some time, just listening to Imrahil's breathing, and eventually his unease over the nightmare began to depart. When he finally sighed, and relaxed completely, there came a chuckle from his lord.

"That is better!"

"How are _you_ feeling this morning, Imri?"

"Very well, actually. No headache at all at present."

"I should go and get you some food then."

"Why do you not go and get what we need for our oath instead? I would wager that Fin is still asleep, so now is a good time. We can have breakfast afterwards."

"Very well." Imrahil let him go, and he rolled out from under his blanket, and pulled on his boots and tunic. "I will return soon." The prince nodded.

During the time that his friend was gone, Imrahil got up, took care of his morning necessities, and washed up, changing his nightshirt for a clean shirt and breeches. He was feeding the embers of the previous night's fire, and poking it back to life when Andrahar returned, looking freshly washed and brushed himself, and carrying a roll of bandaging, a couple of white towels, and a stoppered bottle. The Haradrim paled when he saw his lord at the hearth.

"My lord, come away from there!"

"Whatever for?"

"The Seers of my folk scry in fire! It could set you off!"

"Oh, for Valars' sake, Andra! The goodwives of Belfalas scry in the tidal pools under the moon at certain times! Are you going to forbid me my washbasin next?"

"If necessary," Andrahar said grimly. He pulled the bed curtains upon the side of the bed closest to the hearth halfway closed. "Get up there, and don't look into the flames!" Shaking his head with a grin, the prince did as he was told.

"I am going to use your dagger if you don't mind," the Haradrim continued. "It is a bit longer, and better suited for this."

"Do as you like, Andra. You are the expert upon this ritual." Imrahil could hear him moving about, presumably finding the dagger and placing the blade in the coals. There was some quiet muttering in Haradric that the prince could not quite make out. Then Andrahar walked around to the other side of the bed so he could consult with his lord without Imrahil having the least excuse to look towards the fire.

"There are words we will say when we do this, but you should not call upon the Sacred Fire; as a Gondorrim, it would bring ill-luck upon you. So you might want to give some thought to what powers you wish to invoke to witness this." Imrahil nodded, frowned in thought for a few moments, then went to open the window. A moist, chill autumn breeze blew into the room.

"Is there anything I can do to help? Don't we have to do this next to the fire?"

"No. If it is present in the room, that is enough. You could pull that small side table out into the middle of the floor if you are feeling well enough. We can set what we need upon it." Imrahil did so, and Andrahar brought the towels over, spread one on top of the table, left the folded one at the side of the spread one, and placed the bottle beside the folded towel. He then fetched the dagger from the fire, and held it up until it had completely cooled, whereupon he cut a piece of bandage about two feet in length and laid it beside the towel along with the rest of the roll.

Picking up the dagger again, this time in his left hand, he moved to one side of the table, and indicated that Imrahil should take the other side. "Take the hilt in your left hand along with me." The prince reached out and grasped the dagger, which was point up between the two of them. Andrahar then put his right palm against the edge of the blade closest to him, point even with the top of his palm, and Imrahil followed suit on his side. Black eyes met grey, and held. The Haradrim took a deep breath. "On the count of three…one….two…._three!" _Two left hands drew the blade down against right palms. Two young men winced slightly, though in truth the cuts were little deeper than scratches.

Andrahar spread his fingers of his right hand and knitted them into Imrahil's. "We can put the blade down now." They set it upon the table, and the former slave took up one end of the piece of bandage. "Take the other end of that, Imri." When the prince had done so, Andrahar wrapped his end around their entwined hands once, retaining his grasp upon the end. "Now you do the same." When that task was completed, and the bandage pulled snug, the palms were tight against each other. A tiny trickle of blood wended its way down the inside of each wrist.

"Now we say the words." The knight-probationer looked down at the table for a moment, then solemnly back up at Imrahil. "I, Andrahar son of Isfhandijar, call upon the Sacred Fire as witness, to burn into being the bond our birth has denied us. By our mingled blood I declare that this man, Imrahil, is my brother, till death and beyond."

The Heir to Dol Amroth smiled, and there was no hesitation when he spoke. "I, Imrahil son of Adrahil, call upon Manwë , Lord of Air and Oaths, to bear witness. Though the same womb did not birth us, nor the same seed sire us, by our mingled blood I declare that this man, Andrahar, is my brother, till death and beyond."

The morning breeze picked up and blew in the window again, and the fire flared for a moment. Two pairs of eyebrows, one heavy, one elegantly arched, rose in tandem. Two young men shivered slightly. Then they released the bandage, and their hands.

"A good omen, I think," Imrahil commented. Andrahar nodded.

"If you believe in such things."

"If you do _not_, then why did you trouble to invoke such powers?"

One of Andrahar's rare grins creased his face. "Because I am not absolutely certain that I am correct in my unbelief! But that was well done, my…brother." His voice was almost shy upon the last word. "It was as eloquent as if you'd thought about the wording all night. Here, let me bind your hand up."

"Only if you let me bind yours when you're done." The bottle turned out to contain the herbal wound-wash that Master Kendrion prepared to prevent infection, and Andrahar had obviously absorbed his lessons on battlefield leech-craft. Even with his own hand injured, he was able to bind Imrahil's without getting any of his own blood upon it. The prince returned the favor with similar deftness. When he had done, his new oath-brother gave him a penetrating look.

"Still no headache?"

"Not yet."

"Then I shall fetch us breakfast now. You get back into bed."

"Andra, I feel perfectly well!"

"And let us see that it stays that way. Get back in bed." The Haradrim tucked the bottle under his arm, handed the dagger to Imrahil, and pushed the table back into its original position. Pausing a moment in thought, he went next door into Imrahil's bathing chamber, and returned with another clean towel. Straight-faced, he draped it over the silver washbasin on the washstand, covering it. The prince gave him a look of utter disbelief, then his mouth started twitching as he tried to repress a laugh. Andrahar gathered up the towels and bandages, and started out the door, but not before pausing in the doorway. "Remember, no looking in the flames."

"Oh, for pity's sake, Andra!" The knight-probationer chuckled and departed.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

The grey dawn became a grey, rainy morning. Imrahil ate a good breakfast, much to the relief of his sister, who came up to visit him soon afterwards. Finduilas, upon first seeing the two bandaged hands, asked what had happened with a frown.

"Andra and I have sworn an oath of blood brotherhood," Imrahil said blithely. The frown deepened.

"Whose idea was that?" Finduilas asked. Andrahar dropped his eyes.

"Mine," Imrahil said firmly. "I wanted him to. I was trying to look up the custom when Lord Denethor visited the other day. But I could not find it, so I had to ask Andra about how it was done."

"But _why_, Imri?"

"Why not? Hasn't he already been like a brother to me? I saved his life, and he's saved mine how many times now? It was only a formal recognition of what we both already know." Seeing his sister still skeptical, the young prince shamelessly proceeded to play his trump card. Pleading , guileless grey eyes sought her sympathy, and Andrahar noted that Imrahil actually managed to make his lip tremble the tiniest bit. "Andra is so strong, Fin. I feel stronger when he is with me. And not so…afraid of all of this."

That broke Finduilas. "Oh very well! I can't say that I fully understand your reasoning, but if it makes you feel better…I'll let _you_ explain it to Father and Mother." She laid a hand upon Andrahar's shoulder, and when the knight-probationer looked over at her, added, "_You're_ the one who has my sympathy! I hope you know what you are letting yourself in for."

"Yes, my lady," came his quiet response. She got up from her chair.

"I am going to go downstairs to talk to Uncle Aerandir about hiring us a ship to take us to Dol Amroth, Imri. Lord Thorongil had suggested that perhaps the Elves might be able to help you, and I trust Master Kendrion more than any Minas Tirith healer."

Imrahil gave her a surprised look. "You're taking me home, Fin?"

"Yes. Perhaps Lord Gildor's folk hold an answer to your problem. The healers here obviously do not. I am very worried about you, Imri. And I think you might do better at home in any event. We Dol Amroth folk need the Sea, I think at times. We don't do well when long away."

"It would be nice to see Mother and Father again," the young prince commented wistfully. "I did not spend very much time there at all before I came here to see you. And I had not even considered Lord Gildor's folk. But what about Lord Denethor? Your courtship will founder if he is here and you are there." Finduilas pursed her lips.

"I have spent months here in Minas Tirith far away from Mother and Father, and now you are seriously ill. If he wishes to see me, he knows where we live, and the roads are good in Belfalas at least."

A twinkle came into Imrahil's eyes then. "And everyone says that I am the one who inherited Mother's stubbornness! I think she gave it to both of us!" His sister scowled at him.

"There is no way that I am as troublesome and stubborn as you, my brother! But as I am the eldest, it falls to me to care for you as best I may. Now-I have sent for the healers to come and look at you again today." He gave her a disgruntled look, and she shook a finger at him. "None of that! They may not know how to cure your visions, but they can tell me if you are strong enough to travel. Will you stay with him, Andrahar?"

"Yes, my lady."

"Ring if the two of you need anything." When she had gone out the door and down the hall a safe distance, then Andrahar turned to Imrahil.

"You," he declared, "are despicable." He made an attempt at a falsetto. "'I feel stronger when he is with me!'"

The prince flopped back against his pillows, hands behind his head, grinning. "Yes, I truly am bad, aren't I?"

"I had no idea that I had just bound myself in brotherhood to a man who could make his lip quiver like a maiden's."

"Not quite like a maiden's. The manner in which it is done must be much more subtle than that to be effective. And it is truly only effective upon female relatives."

"Like your mother? Or Lady Tirathiel?"

"Well, effective only upon Fin, then!" Slight exasperation colored the Imrahil's tone. "I'm her _baby_ brother, after all! Do you want to play a game of chess?" Andrahar allowed that that would be pleasant. "Then pull that little table back over here to the bedside, if you will. It's certainly proven useful today."

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

Andrahar and Imrahil were well-matched as chess opponents, both of them having been instructed in the game at an early age, but neither of them obsessive about it. Andrahar's game was perhaps less flexible and more relentless, but Imrahil's occasional scintillating brilliance was punctuated by flights of fancy that as often as not blew up in his face. There were generally two possible outcomes for any particular game; the young prince would either run circles around his more stolid friend, or the Haradrim would juggernaut over the Heir's disorganized defenses.

This day, Imrahil's play was hardly at his best. The headache returned mid-morning, though he tried to hold it at bay with willow-bark tea, and insisted on continuing the game. Andrahar watched him closely while trouncing him at the same time, and when he reached blindly for the wrong piece and toppled a couple of others, the knight-probationer said, "That's enough, Imri. I will set this aside for later," and did so. When he returned from putting the table back in its place, he found the Heir pale against his pillows, eyes closed and jaw clenched against the pain.

"Would you like some poppy?"

"Not yet. Give it a bit. Perhaps it will get better. Do you think you could read to me for a while? To take my mind off of it?"

"As you wish." Andrahar went to the desk and looked through a couple of books, and knowing his lord's tastes well, selected one that depicted the scurrilous doings at court in Imrahil's great-great-grandfather's time. Returning with it, he settled himself back into his chair and began to read.

He knew himself to be a boring reader, his delivery flat and rather expressionless, unlike Imrahil, who could make a list of chores sound like epic poetry. But he did his best, and the account of scandal and intrigue did actually interest him, perpetually bemused as he was by the odd goings-on of the Gondorrim. He had been reading for a while, and was rather absorbed in the book, when Imrahil interrupted him, reaching a hand out blindly towards him.

"Andra. It's happening again."

"Another vision?"

"Yes. It feels like…a bad one." A pained smile twisted his mouth. "And to think I managed it without any flames…or washbasins."

Setting the book aside, Andrahar reached for both Imrahil's hand and the bell-pull.

"I'll send for Finduilas. And I am here. We will stay with you Imri, until you come back." But there was no answer, and when the Haradrim looked down, the young prince was already lost in the vision, body slightly rigid, eyelids parted the least little bit. A slight tremor ran through him from time to time.

Princess Finduilas came swiftly in answer to Andrahar's summons, and the two of them settled themselves, sworn brother and blood sister upon either side of Imrahil, each one holding a hand, each one speaking to him comfortingly, encouraging him to find his way back to them. But half an hour became an hour, the longest any of his previous visions had lasted, and still he did not wake. The hour became two, then three, then four with no change in his condition. Aerandir and Eilinel joined the vigil, then departed again when Eilinel became too distraught. The healers came early in the afternoon as well, for the routine appointment that Finduilas had requested. They stayed a while, pleased to be able to finally observe the prince in the throes of his foresight though they tried, not entirely successfully, to hide their glee at the happy chance from his sister. Then, declaring themselves still baffled despite the new information, departed to consult their healing scrolls and the apothecary. The grey day began to darken towards evening.

"How much of this can he take?" Finduilas had asked Andrahar softly mid-afternoon.

"I do not know, my lady." He did not repeat to her Thorongil's comments about Imrahil's heart failing him or the possibility of him going mad. To worry her further seemed both pointless and cruel. Instead, he continued talking to Imrahil and stroking his hand, extending the only lifeline that he could, and wondering where Captain Thorongil was.

If he does not bring the help he promised, and soon, then he had best start riding for the border!

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

"I apologize, princess, but I had to ride halfway to Lossarnach to find what I needed." The cloaked figure in the doorway was heedless of the water he was dripping onto the very expensive carpets, and Finduilas did not seem to care either.

"Captain Thorongil? What do you here, sir?"

"I told the prince yesterday that I had an old family recipe for a tonic that might help with his headaches. I promised that I would find the ingredients and make him some. It took longer than I had thought that it would."

The princess got up and went to the captain, ushering him into the room.

"T'was kindly thought of, my lord. But as you see, my brother is…well, I do not know how you would get him to drink a tea or tonic." Thorongil looked at her pale, anxious face and smiled reassuringly.

"Let me worry about that, lady." He regarded the still form on the bed with concern. "How long has he been like this?"

"Since before lunch. It has never lasted so long before." At her urging, the captain removed his cloak and she took it. "I cannot believe the servants were so lax as to not take this for you! I will take it downstairs and see that they dry it as best they can."

"Do not fault them, lady. I was in a hurry and rather bullied my way past them. Have you hot water prepared for tea? Could you bring me some? And a bowl?"

"Of course, my lord." She departed. Thorongil moved to the side of the bed and looked down upon the prince.

"This is a large bed," he remarked. "I will need to move him closer to this side, so that I may reach him." Accomplishing this task with Andrahar's assistance, he then pulled up a chair to the bedside and settled himself into it. Laying a hand upon the young prince's brow, he looked up at the Haradrim. "Close the door if you would. Admit none but the princess when she returns, and please do not disturb me." Andrahar nodded, and did as he had been bidden, taking up station near the door so that he could insure that none but Finduilas would enter.

"What is it that you are going to do, captain? 'Tis more than dosing him with tea from the sound of things."

Thorongil looked up at him, his eyes troubled. "I will do what I can, and we must hope that it suffices. For if he has been lost so long, he may very well already be beyond my meager skill. This is not exactly your usual sort of illness." A bit of an oddly fey smile touched his lips. "Here is where we shall find out exactly how well I was taught." Closing his eyes, he bent his head, seemingly deep in thought. After a moment, his voice came, soft but with an unmistakable ring of command. "_Imrahil_." His jaw tightened and his other hand clenched upon the coverlet, as if he were under some sort of strain, but naught else happened, save that he spoke the prince's name again after a bit, and several more times at intervals after that, his voice sounding more distant each time.

This was the scene the Princess Finduilas walked in on when she returned with the things Thorongil had requested. Puzzled, she started towards the captain, only to be halted by her favored bodyguard's hand upon her arm. When she would have spoken, Andrahar placed a finger upon his lips. He then relieved her of the tea-kettle, taking it to hang over the fire that it might stay hot, and placed the bowl upon the mantle. She watched him, frowning slightly, then went back out the door when he gestured that she do so and held the door for her, closing it after them.

"Andrahar, _what _is going on in there?" she demanded when they were out in the corridor, folding her arms and regarding him imperiously.

"I am not entirely certain. But whatever it is, it is of my asking."

"What do you mean by that?"

"The other day, when Captain Thorongil visited, I watched him closely, because he was watching the prince closely. And I realized that he knew what was wrong with Imrahil, where the healers did not. He promised some medicine that might help the prince's headaches and as he was leaving, I drew him aside privately, and confronted him. He admitted that he had heard of such an ailment as the prince's before, that Imrahil's foresight was uncontrollable for some reason. It was then that he made the suggestion about the _pairiki._

He intimated that there might be something else that he could do to help, but that he did not wish Lord Denethor to learn about it. Whereupon I told him that if he did not do everything he possibly could to aid the prince, and Imrahil died, then I would hunt him down and kill him."

Finduilas' eyes widened in astonishment. "Andrahar! You _threatened_ a Captain of Gondor? That is treason!"

Black eyes met hers calmly. "No, my lady, I _promised_ retribution to a Captain of Gondor."

"Wordplay! Threatened, promised, whatever you call it, you overstepped yourself!" The next thing she knew, she was staring down at the back and bent head of the knight-probationer, who knelt submissively before her upon the floor.

"If I have displeased the princess so greatly, she has only to call her knights, and have my unworthy head stricken from my shoulders."

"Oh! There it is again! The head-chopping business! You know how I hate that, Andrahar! Will you never tire of it?"

"The first time it fails to be effective, my lady, I shall be dead. So the answer is no," came the murmur from the level of Finduilas' knees.

"Oh, get up off of the floor!" she exclaimed in exasperation. ""Tis unbecoming for a knight to grovel thusly, and whatever it is that the good captain is doing with my brother, I want to watch it! He and I will discuss this matter of his reticence about Lord Denethor later."

The Haradrim rose swiftly to his feet, that he might open the door for the princess, and the two of them entered the room once more.

Things were very much as they had left them; Imrahil pale and silent in the bed, Captain Thorongil with his hand still upon the young man's brow, his eyes closed, his own brow furrowed in concentration. He looked very weary, as if he'd somehow ridden again to Lossarnach and back in their brief absence. "Imrahil!" he said once more, and there was a long moment of silence, as if some response were being listened for. Then suddenly, eyes still closed, he took the prince's hand up in his own and smiled.

Andrahar, watching Imrahil, touched Finduilas' arm gently. "Look, my lady," he whispered, indicating the prince. Imrahil had slumped into his pillows, totally relaxed, and his eyelids had closed completely. "The vision is over." Finduilas peered at her brother more closely.

"I do believe you are right." She was whispering as well. Some minutes passed as the two watched silently; then, shaking himself a bit, the captain opened his eyes and looked around. He seemed almost relieved.

He truly was not certain that he could do this, Andrahar realized.

"My lady, could I trouble you for that bowl and hot water now?" Thorongil asked the princess politely. If he was troubled by her presence there, he did not show it. Finduilas started for the hearth, but Andrahar stopped her.

"Let me, my lady. You should go to your brother."

"And I know better than to refuse since you'll just want me to chop your head off again."

Thorongil gave her a questioning look as she moved to his side, but she did not explain matters to him. Andrahar got the bowl from the mantle and the teapot from the hearth, brought the bowl to the bedside table, and filled it with the steaming water.

"Is that enough, sir?" The captain nodded.

"That will more than suffice." Reaching into a pouch at his side, he drew forth some herbs, crushed them between his two hands, breathed upon them, and cast them into the bowl. A very strange thing happened. Andrahar, who had been expecting some sort of herbal aroma, caught instead a pungent whiff of myrtle and the scent of the sea.

Finduilas' nose lifted in surprise. "It smells like home!"

"Does it?" Thorongil asked, smiling even more broadly. He took up the bowl, and held it before Imrahil's face. His own expression seemed not so weary now, as if he had been refreshed by something in the steam. "Wake, Imrahil! You are worrying your family."

Before, when the visions were done, the prince had always lapsed immediately into exhausted slumber. Never had he simply awoken as he did now, looking about alertly. Andrahar and the princess exchanged amazed looks.

"Fin. Andra. My lord…captain." The customary glint of mischief was back in his eyes. His sister seized his hand.

"Imrahil! How do you feel?"

"A little tired, but mostly hungry." He glanced out the window. "And no wonder! Another day gone!" A pleading look was directed at his sister. "Feed me, Fin?"

"Of course. I will send for supper. Eilinel will be so pleased!" She rang for a servant, then turned back to Thorongil.

"My lord, I have never seen the like. However did you do that?" The captain's lanky form unfolded out of the bedside chair, and he offered it to the princess with a bow.

"My family knows something of healing, my lady. A gift not unlike your family's gift of foresight."

Finduilas, seating herself at her brother's side, gave him an intent stare. "Such gifts are generally found only in our oldest families, though the blood runs thin even here." Thorongil shrugged gracefully.

"The blood of Westernesse is strewn across the lands of Middle-earth as the stars were strewn by Elbereth herself across the sky. Sometimes a long-buried seed brings forth strange fruit."

"Andrahar says that you would rather I not speak to Lord Denethor about this."

"That is true. But I have no way of stopping you from doing so."

"Fin," said Imrahil suddenly from the bed, "you must not!"

"I am sure that the princess is capable of making her own mind up about the matter," the captain said. "But it is true that Lord Denethor has suffered enough from his father's fulsome praise of my modest military efforts. If my victory in this new arena were to come to his attention, then I fear he would become even less well disposed towards me than he already is. The prince's illness was inexplicable to even the finest of Gondor's healers. If it should depart as mysteriously as it came, then no one will question it." He smiled again then, his most lovely smile. Finduilas dropped her eyes. "However, I do not mind if you speak of my old family recipe for severe headaches."

The princess sighed, and glared at her brother and her bodyguard. "It was bad enough when it was just the two of you," she said. "I am absolutely outnumbered when you add him in as well!" Thorongil chuckled. "Captain, I owe you a great debt for what you did here this day. My silence seems a small enough price to pay."

He bowed. "I thank you, my lady."

"And I you. Will my brother be well now?"

"He may still have the visions. His need for the instruction of the Elves has not changed. But the headaches should not return, and the visions will hopefully be of much shorter duration than this last one. You should be able to travel to Dol Amroth with no difficulty. But for now I fear I must depart. I have a patrol in the early morning." Finduilas rose to see him to the door, but he paused beside Andrahar upon his way out.

"Am I still in mortal peril, Andrahar?" The Haradrim bowed.

"No, my lord. Now I stand in your debt."

"A man who can reliably kill a man with a knife at twenty paces is in my debt?" Imrahil gave his sworn brother a baffled look as Thorongil continued. "Not a bad recompense for a little time and a few leaves! Rest well tonight, Imrahil, but you can get up tomorrow if you wish. A good evening to you all." And with a wink at Andrahar and a grin, he departed.


	12. Chapter Twelve

September 2975

The _Heledir_ was a merchantman, a large one out of Dol Amroth, which sometimes carried passengers. And being a Dol Amroth vessel, her master was only too willing to go to great lengths to accommodate the Heir, the Princess and their entourage in rather more comfort than had been expected--for a fee that was actually not that unreasonable. The weather was holding fair for the first few days out of Minas Tirith, and they made good time, easy time with full sail set and no rowing necessary, as they were going downstream. The sailors sang as they went about their work, and from time to time, Imrahil would join his splendid tenor to their song.

Whatever it was Thorongil had done, it was effective. The headaches and visions did not reoccur, and with them gone, the young Prince was in a much more cheerful frame of mind. Finduilas, still very worried about Imrahil, would not allow him more than an hour's carefully supervised swordplay a day. The rest of the time he was under orders to loaf, and he did that with a good will, lounging under the awning that had been set up amidships with his sister, Lady Tirathiel, and the Lord Denethor, who had insisted upon accompanying them. The Heir to Dol Amroth played exactly one game of chess those first days with the Steward's Heir. The experience, which was mercifully brief, was also sufficiently humiliating that Imrahil was content after that to leave Lord Denethor to Lady Tirathiel's not-so-tender mercies.

As an inveterate people-watcher, however, the young prince found plenty to amuse himself with during the journey. First there were Denethor's chess games with Tirathiel, who, rumor had it, was a former romantic interest of the Steward's. The vicious proficiency in repartee and on the chessboard between the two were fascinating. Then there was the Captain-General's rather strait-laced pursuit of Imrahil's sister, and his ill-concealed dislike of Andrahar.

But the most fun to observe were Denethor's interactions with Captain Thorongil, who had also accompanied them upon this journey, for he had orders from the Steward to set forth upon his little surveillance mission to Umbar, and it had been arranged that he should take ship from Dol Amroth to do so.

The Captain-General continuously sought to penetrate Thorongil's defenses, to discover something of his past and Thorongil continuously rebuffed him with respectful obstinacy. It was, in its way, as masterful a game as any that were being played upon the chess board, and as Imrahil observed it, his respect for both parties increased. He himself did not seek to discover Thorongil's secrets, though he observed the man closely. He felt no particular need to do so, for he had received answers to some of his own questions in another place and time.

Just now, he was watching his blood brother and the inscrutable captain as they sparred in the double-sword style, Andrahar's sword lessons and Thorongil's Haradric instruction having been continued during the journey. Andrahar had not been exaggerating when he spoke of Thorongil's ability with the blade-Imrahil had seen any number of Swan Knights fight, and he knew that few of them would be able to hold their own against the captain. He was profoundly impressed to see that Andrahar was doing so to some extent. His dearest friend had apparently been very busy during their year of separation. Andrahar's swordsmanship, always good, had taken the leap up to a higher level of mastery in Imrahil's absence, and the young prince knew there was no way he could defeat him now.

When fighting with the double-sword style, which neither man had yet mastered, Andrahar and Thorongil were more closely matched than when fighting with more conventional weapons, and the bout itself was rather sporadic. They would make a few passes, then stop and discuss various strategies and techniques, then make a few more passes, only to stop once more and repeat the process. Both seemed to be enjoying themselves, and Imrahil was surprised at the surge of jealousy he felt. He remembered the exchange he and Andrahar had had about the captain upon Imrahil's return to Minas Tirith:

"_The mysterious Captain Eagle of the Star, huh? What is he like?"_

"_He was here sparring with me when you came in. Did you not see him?"_

"_No. I was concentrating on other things. What is he like?" he had asked again. "Should I be jealous?"_

_Andrahar had rolled his own eyes at the inference. "I do not think he is a lover of men, though I thought once that he might be."_

The question was, why had Andrahar thought Thorongil was a lover of men? Was it simply a matter of the captain's legendary reticence where women were concerned? Or had Andrahar actually approached him, and been rebuffed? The two men seemed easy enough in their relationship now, easier than the Heir deemed possible had that occurred. And if Andrahar _had_ propositioned Thorongil, what business was it of Imrahil's? The young prince knew Andrahar had had the odd intimate encounter during the time between his arrival in Dol Amroth and Imrahil's departure to sea, though Andrahar had never spoken of them. And those liaisons had never bothered Imrahil like this business with Thorongil did. It behooved him to discover why this was so.

Was it purely sexual jealousy? If so, then Imrahil had no grounds for it and must do whatever was necessary to suppress it. For he had insisted upon a trial with Andrahar in that area, had had it and had been found wanting. Which still rankled upon a couple of counts; the first being an odd annoyance that Andrahar had not been willing to attempt a further trial despite Imrahil's failure (the refusal seemed to comment upon Imrahil's sexual prowess in general a bit derogatorily), the second being the Heir's shame at his relief that Andrahar _had_ let the matter drop after the one time despite the Haradrim's long-held sexual infatuation. Although Imrahil had what he considered to be an extensive sexual education, and had done some advance research, he had found the act of love-making with a man to be uncomfortable in the extreme and not very pleasurable.

Certainly Imrahil himself was not attracted to Thorongil in what he considered a sexual way, though he allowed that the captain was a very charismatic individual, and it would not have taken much for the young prince to be quite smitten with the hero-worship junior officers often gave their superiors. Now if Thorongil had had a _sister_ close to his age, with that same easy sort of command about her…Imrahil had discovered early on that men who disregarded older, experienced women in favor of younger ones who were merely more comely were idiots. And had subsequently enjoyed many a night of exquisite, excruciating pleasure as a result of that insight. _Thank you, Celebrindal!_

The problem might simply be that Imrahil was aware of Thorongil's true identity, and was suffering from a situational jealousy. As Heir to Dol Amroth, he was one of the four premier noblemen in the kingdom, along with his father, the Steward, and the Steward's Heir. He did not like to think his jealousy was the result of something as petty as _you should be paying more attention to **me **than that Haradrim fellow!_, but he knew himself, and knew that it could be so. Though Thorongil had always been courteous to a fault and Imrahil had enjoyed some stimulating conversation with him, he seemed to prefer Andrahar's company. And that, in combination with the ascendance of Andrahar's star in general-his superiority over the young prince in arms; the admiration of his senior officers, which Imrahil had been privy to in Minas Tirith; his obtaining of a white belt when Imrahil was nowhere close to achieving his own yet; and even the much-deserved gratitude expressed a year ago by Adrahil might explain the sense of pique Imrahil was now experiencing.

For he had shared something with Thorongil that no one else had, and it was perhaps not unreasonable to think that that should give him some precedence over his oath-brother.

During his last, worst vision, Imrahil had been wandering lost in an ever-shifting, chaotic sea of images. His strength failing, he had felt his very being beginning to shred and dissipate, succumbing to the chaos around him. Then he had heard a voice calling his name. There had been something about that voice that clarified things, that helped him focus and seemed to strengthen him and he had sought its owner eagerly. And as he had done so, the images had gradually settled and coalesced, until in the end he had found himself wandering bemused in a mountainous landscape of trees and stone and falling water. There he had come upon his summoner. Captain Thorongil he seemed, yet not so, his mien younger and not so weather-worn in this place, though his expression was somewhat strained. His clothing was dark and nondescript, but he wore his star brooch and a jewel that shone like a star upon his brow. He looked relieved when Imrahil appeared.

"Ah, there you are! You have been over long away, my lord prince. Your sister and your oath-brother are worried."

Imrahil looked at the jewel and at Thorongil's kingly carriage, and remembering certain things from his visions, suddenly, shockingly understood who it was that he was speaking to.

"_My lord king_." And he went to his knees before his savior.

Thorongil raised Imrahil up and stepped back, his face grim. "I am no man's king while the Enemy exists."

"Yet you are of the house of Elendil, are you not?" the young prince persisted. "You are he who could be King in Gondor."

"My descent is from Isildur," Ecthelion's favorite captain replied. "The claim has been made before by others of my lineage and denied. I am the chieftain of the northern Dunedain, and that is all."

"The _northern_ Dunedain…" Imrahil murmured, Thorongil's reticence about his past now becoming perfectly understandable. "There are still some of them left?" Thorongil did not deign to answer, and Imrahil looked at him sidelong with a sudden cheeky smile. "It will be as you wish then, my lord Aragorn," the young prince said, remembering the odd name that had come to him in connection with the captain. It was a shot in the dark, but it hit the gold nonetheless-Thorongil's eyes widened in actual shock.

"The gift of foresight is strong in you indeed, son of Adrahil!" he exclaimed. "Is your sense of discretion equally strong? For this knowledge you have gained is dangerous, both to you and to me. I must have your word that you will speak of this to no one, not even he who is like a brother to you."

"Andra would never betray you, my lord!" His defense of his friend was instant and indignant, but Thorongil remained unmoved.

"Even so, 'tis best that my identity be known to as few as possible. Swear to me that you will tell no one."

Imrahil looked into the stern grey eyes, and swallowed hard, wondering what would happen if he refused to swear. Would Thorongil leave him in this place to die? "I swear as a Prince of Dol Amroth that I will never reveal your true name and identity to anyone without your consent, my lord," he said after moment, his innate love of the dramatic coming to the fore despite his fear. "Will that suffice?"

The rare, warm smile bloomed on Thorongil's face, and he stepped forward once more to grasp Imrahil's elbow. "It more than suffices! Come, let us get you out of here." He led the young prince, starting down a faint trail that Imrahil had not noticed before.

Looking curiously about him at the landscape, Imrahil asked, "Where is this place?" Thorongil cast his eyes about as well.

"The North. The foothills of the northern Hithaeglir, from the looks of things." At the Heir's puzzled look, he chuckled. "No, we're not really there! But the mind tends to shape its surroundings in this place. You have me to thank for this, I fear."

"So this is your home? It is beautiful! But I'll wager it can be harsh as well, particularly in the winter."

"That is certainly true enough! Perhaps you will be able to judge for yourself one day." The two men continued silently down the trail for a time, Thorongil's warm grasp firm and steady upon the young prince's arm, when Imrahil noticed a white mist beginning to rise about them. It put him in mind of the white he had been seeing before his visions occurred, so he dug in his heels and balked.

"What is it, my lord prince?" Thorongil asked as he was brought up short.

"The mist! It happens before the visions! We're going the wrong way!"

"No, we're not." The captain's voice was calm, patient. "You have to trust me on this, Imrahil, even as I must trust you with my secret."

"I was afraid not to swear. I was afraid you would leave me here," Imrahil admitted, hating the quaver in his voice. Thorongil dropped his elbow, turned to him and took his face between sword-callused hands instead.

"Imrahil. I would not have abandoned you to death in dreaming, even had you refused an oath. Though I am glad I have your sworn word, for I know that it is good. But you must stop fighting me. I won't lead you wrong, but I haven't the strength for this that those who taught me possess, and I am getting tired. Walk beside me and if I should lose hold for any reason, then you must follow the sound of my voice." He let go Imrahil's face and took him by the wrist, then moved forward once more, towing Imrahil into the fog. The Heir to Dol Amroth walked blindly into the white on trust and had continued walking blind for what seemed an eternity, his only sense of anything other than white fog Thorongil's grip upon his wrist and Thorongil's voice before him, calling his name. More than once he had had to thrust down a rising sense of panic, an irrational desire to break free from the captain's hold and run to escape the mist that pressed so closely about them.

And then suddenly he had come awake in his own bed, with Finduilas and Andrahar and the captain who was so much more all hovering anxiously over him.

"_Fin. Andra. My lord…captain," _he had said with a touch of the cheek he had exhibited in his dream. Thorongil had given him a warning look, unnoticed by the other two, fended off Finduilas' questions, issued some instructions and departed. Since then, other than those conversations, he had had little interaction with Thorongil, and the captain seemed to prefer it that way.

_Yes, that's definitely it! _Imrahil decided, disgusted at himself. _I'm jealous that the man who should be king in Gondor likes my friend better than me, and doesn't seem to want to acknowledge what we shared and that I hold his secret. Even though it is perhaps wiser and safer for him to avoid me, lest with some youthful trip of the tongue I reveal what I know. I just need to grow up!_

It was a tempting vision, the King of Gondor restored, with all his highest lords at his hand and Imrahil foremost among them as the one who held his greatest trust. But it might not come to pass for years, if ever, and it was certainly not worth poisoning his greatest friendship for. Imrahil made a resolution in that moment to suppress his jealousy, to not seek Thorongil out beyond the bounds of what civility dictated, and to be grateful that Andra had found a companion besides himself whose company he enjoyed, for such were few and far between. And then, since that was rather an excess of maturity for one day, he slipped into his tiny cabin for a drink of the brandy he'd smuggled on board and a nap.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

Imrahil awoke many hours later with a start. The image of a robed figure, blood clotting rough dark hair and pooling beneath it was with him still. The face of the figure had never become visible in the dream, and he was not sure if this were truly one of the visions or not. The small stern window in his cabin showed darkness without, and he cursed silently. If it was near dawn then things would not be so bad, but if the night were only half over, he'd be up for the rest of it. The brandy had left a foul taste in his mouth, but the moment he got up to get some more to wash the taste away, there was a stirring from the other bunk in the cabin.

"Imri, are you all right?"

"Yes, Andra. Why didn't someone wake me?"

"I tried at dinner time, but I couldn't rouse you. Your sister figured you must need the rest, and said we should leave you alone. There may be something left in the galley, if you're hungry."

"I'll go and see. You go back to sleep."

There was a muffled murmur of assent and nothing more. Imrahil pulled his boots on, threw his cloak over his shoulders, then found and poured his glass of brandy. Moving softly out of the cabin, he found himself in an almost silent world of darkness, mist, creaking wood and lapping water. The night watch's sailors moved noiselessly about their duties without acknowledging his presence at all. Lanterns hung at stern and mast seemed to hover in misty aureoles of light.

A tiny spark of red showed briefly near the prow of the ship and intrigued, he made his way toward it. Thorongil was leaning against the rail, staring out into the darkness that lay before the ship and smoking his pipe. A nod acknowledged Imrahil as he approached.

"My lord prince."

"What time is it?"

"A couple of hours before dawn."

Imrahil grimaced. "Then I shall probably see it this morning." He took a sip of the brandy. There was the brief flash of a smile around the stem of the pipe.

"They said you'd gone below to sleep yesterday afternoon. Did you usually stand the third watch on your ship?"

"Yes. Or at least I did at the end of my tour."

"Old habits die hard. I like this watch myself. Everything is quiet, and a man can think."

"And what are you thinking about, in all this quiet?"

"Nothing much. Just about Umbar. I've never been there, though I understand that you have."

"When I was sixteen. Though I don't think what I remember would be of much use to you. Most of the visit was spent in the Lord of Umbar's palace. I did shop in the upper markets a bit, and then, before I left, I went to the lower market. That's where I found Andrahar."

"Will you tell me the story? I've heard the most extraordinary things about that day."

"From Lord Denethor?"

"Among others. Your liege man is a very popular topic of speculation at court."

"Almost as popular, I would imagine, as speculation upon Captain Thorongil's origins."

Thorongil inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the hit. "Will you not tell me the tale, Prince Imrahil?" he asked again. The pipe was removed from the captain's mouth, and this time the smile was his most beguiling, winning one.

Imrahil, needing no further acknowledgment, began the story of that morning in Umbar, speaking with hands as much as voice, which he kept very low so that it would not carry to the sailors. Thorongil was a good listener, his keen grey eyes intent upon Imrahil's face, and he chuckled appreciatively in a couple of appropriate places.

"So, the price of peerless loyalty is a sapphire ring," he commented when the tale was done. "Somehow that seems quite the bargain."

"Best money I ever spent," Imrahil agreed with a grin. "Of course, it was a very _large_ sapphire."

Thorongil was refilling his pipe, and Imrahil decided that if good for nothing else, the rituals of his odd habit gave the captain time to marshal his thoughts. And they were also most useful for filling up those awkward, silent spots in conversations between folk who didn't know each other particularly well yet.

"Your oath-brother holds you in equally high regard," the captain said at last. "I asked him about you once, right before you walked in the gate at Minas Tirith. Do you know what he said?" Imrahil shook his head. "When I asked if you were nothing more than a pretty face, he said that you were reckless and rash, but that you had courage and wit and could be a great lord one day."

"Andra said that?"

"Yes. And as I fancy myself a good judge of men, I think it likely as well-providing you do not slay yourself with your own excesses at a young age."

The young prince bent his head, glad for the lack of light that would hopefully hide the flush upon his cheeks. He could feel Thorongil's gaze upon him.

"Imrahil," the captain said more softly after a moment, "there is no shame in never having known hunger or want. A lord is spared those things by his people's efforts so that he might in turn do those tasks which his people look to him for-defending them and administering justice. You will have challenges enough to deal with in due time. There is no need to be testing yourself in this manner."

The Heir to Dol Amroth sucked in a quick breath, taken aback at Thorongil's perception, for there was truth, he realized, in what the man said. "I daresay you know what it is to have been hungry and cold," he grumbled a bit too sulkily for even his own taste. "And you're a lord."

"That I do," admitted Isildur's Heir. "For I have been abroad long, journeying in many lands. But my people might rightly make complaint of me because of that. I have not been among them as I should."

Imrahil looked up, startled, and found Thorongil looking northward with a pensive expression upon his face.

"Regents are well enough," he said in a very low tone, "but they cannot truly take a lord's place among his people. I grew up among the Elves of Imladris, and knew a score of years before I even went among my folk. And I've spent little enough time with them since. There are those who say that I am overmuch concerned with gaining the southern realm to the neglect of the northern one."

"Is that true? Is that why you are here?"

"No. I am here because this is where the hammer will fall, in the end. Not in the North. And within our lifetimes, I think. I have spent time among the Rohirrim, learning their ways, and the Haradrim, and in other lands, spying out the Enemy's design and seeking ways to thwart him. For that same reason, I am here now. Though I will own," and here he gave the young prince a rueful smile, "that there was also in me a great desire to know the land of my forefathers. And that it has not disappointed."

"Why have you not declared yourself then?" Even more conscious of the sailors moving about at some little distance and the volatile nature of the conversation, Imrahil too kept his voice to the barest murmur.

"Because it would serve no end save to cause strife and weaken Gondor. Ecthelion is a wise ruler, there is no need to challenge him. And his son in his turn will rule well, I think." Thorongil gave Imrahil's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I know that disappoints you, that you would have the king return. But it may well be that the time for that will never come."

"I fear that it will never come if you go to Umbar, captain." The Heir had not intended to speak of his dream, but he felt curiously compelled to do so.

Thorongil cocked an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"I had a dream tonight, before I came out here. I do not know if it was one of my visions or not. It was just an image, of a man in robes bleeding his life out in some dark place. I could not see his face, but his hair…his hair was shaggy like yours. And his skin was paler than that of most Haradrim."

The captain considered this for a moment, taking a thoughtful draw upon his pipe. "But you are not certain that this was a vision?"

"It wasn't all confused, as they have been. So no, I'm not certain."

"And what if I were to tell you that _I_ have had a vision that tells me I must go to Umbar?"

Imrahil stared at him in astonishment. "You have the dreams as well?"

Thorongil shook his head. "Not like you do. But my family _is_ foresighted. And I know that I must go there. There is something I need to do, that will buy Gondor some much-needed time if it succeeds. But for it to succeed, I need intelligence, the sort of intelligence that I can only gather myself. So I fear that without more information than what you have given me, I must pay heed to my vision over yours."

"You should not risk yourself so."

"I might say the same of you, and say as well that at least I risk myself to better purpose."

Imrahil, remembering the night in the brothel and some of his other exploits over the last several years, felt his face heat once more. He moved a little closer to the rail and bent his head over his brandy.

"I am sorry, Imrahil." There was a noise of movement behind him, as Thorongil drew closer. "That was uncalled for."

"There was truth enough in it," the young prince muttered.

"Perhaps, but still…I have no right to be bludgeoning you with your past deeds just because I have regrets about some of my own. Forgive me."

"Of course, my lord. Always." Imrahil looked up, met Thorongil's grey eyes. "I would say the words," he added after a brief hesitation. It was almost a plea, but the captain shook his head.

"I may not hear them now. And that day may never come. Though if it does, and you still wish to, I promise that you will be the first."

Imrahil nodded, feeling oddly weary of a sudden, and a little sick to his stomach. Brandy as a steady diet was probably not particularly wise, he reflected, given his current condition, and brandy seasoned with disappointment was even worse. The ship's lanterns were blurring in and out in the oddest fashion, and Thorongil's voice suddenly sounded as if it were coming from a great distance.

"My lord prince? Are you well?"

"Well enough, captain," he managed to say. An arm was thrown about his shoulders, a warm anchor to reality that he found most welcome.

"Is it the visions again?" Thorongil's voice, concerned, sounded close by again-right in his ear in fact, which was a bit disconcerting.

"I am not certain. I don't think so. Most likely too much brandy on an empty stomach. More of my excesses."

The captain chuckled and began to steer him back towards his cabin. "Well, whatever it is, let's get you back to your bed. The dawn can wait for another day."


End file.
